BEIJING, March 17 -- The Taoist hermits rode the clouds, teleported through space and were once worshipped across the nation for their extreme pursuit of ultimate freedom.

Yet the attractive philosophy of the ancients can sometimes seem somewhat out of step with modern cravings for conspicuous consumption.

A Quanzhen Taoist at temple on Mount Lao, 30 kilometers from the sub-provincial coastal city of Qingdao, Shandong Province. The highest coastal mountain in China at 1,133 meters, Mount Lao is known as one of the birthplaces of Taoism. (Photo: AFP/Global Times)

Even those who choose to separate themselves from the manmade material world soon find they must face challenges from the corrosive aftershocks of reform and opening-up.

At first glance, the solitary Taoist nunnery of eastern Beijing looks deserted sat amidst the chilly gray smog of early spring.

Youminguan's regular 10 or more priests prospered here, benefiting considerably in the 16th century from the old Grand Canal connecting Beijing to Hangzhou.

The Cultural Revolution (1966- 76) soon ended that. For subsequent decades, all that remained was an ancient tree where villagers occasionally prayed.

"It's efficacious," says nun Liu Chongyao, in her 50s, who took over this, the second-largest Taoist temple of the capital city in 2007 after its rebuilding in 2004.

In her Taoist hat and dark blue robes, this founder of a new nunnery looks younger than her years.

"I always wanted to have a temple for Taoist nuns. Twenty years later, my dream came true," says Liu, sitting in an office with governmental regulations hanging on every wall.

Fruits and candies are offered to guests at the tea table.

"They are all donated by followers, including the rice and flour we eat," says the nun of nearly 30 years.

Since the Beijing Religious Affairs Bureau permitted her nunnery in August last year, Liu has had regular reasons to ponder the trade-off between seclusion and survival. She must grapple with an inconvenient truth that her religion needs money to drive forward.

"If there were no worshippers, there would be no income from the incense," she says. "And then no nuns would come."

She has two disciples in the 1.6- acre temple. In the old days, free food and housing was all anyone needed, she says, but nowadays some would-be nuns will inquire about the monthly salary first.

"Nearly all the priests and nuns have mobile phones and are saving for a computer," she says.

"Some think bad luck will magically end once they are nuns. Instead, they encounter only yet more bad karma," she says.

"You can't stop fate."

Liu often tries to talk teenage girls out of a nun's life. She fears they will fall astray as temple life comes under assault from the temptations of rampant secular materialism.

Nationwide about 300 women a year used to become Taoist nuns back in the 1980s: mostly exiled from failed marriages, failed careers or from simply not thinking things through, she says.

"Some come to regret it," she says. "It looks bad if they decide to return to secular life and so instead they focus on how they can make money and support their family.

"'There are many priests at the doors of hell,' "she quotes the old saying.

They should stick to their oaths, she says, even as their quality of living conditions improve.

"Some people say religion should keep pace with the times like Shaolin Temple Abbot Yongxin, who revitalized the economy and Buddhism," Liu says.

"But I'd rather go back and return to original simplicity."