There was a soft tinkling and a slight shuffling. Everything was a blue black, the color of cold dawn, and I denied that it was time to move out of my warmth. The huge wooden doors to the prayer room opened and let in more dark air and cold mountain wind that plunged into the room. Ma muttered softly in Tibetan as she did every morning when all was dark. It was her way of summoning me for breakfast. It was 4:30, and wind flew through the mountain corridors; invisible and powerful. My bedroom smelled of wood and incense, and was adorned with pictures of the Dalai Lama and Buddhist deities.
My buddy, Chris, works in Burlington, Vermont for Burton, and each spring he heads off to 
