Awakening
Bliss is your essential nature. It cannot be contained within any one lineage.
Love is a quality of your own being. It cannot be confined to any one tradition because its essence is unconditional.
Meditation is an inspiration that descends from the beyond. It cannot be confined to any tradition.
Our greatest qualities are deeply personal and private, but nevertheless, most of us feel the benefits of belonging to a sangha—a group of people who are engaged in the same spiritual practices.
When we practice in a group, we create a field of subtle frequencies, a “Buddhafield” of energy and consciousness that can carry us faster through our resistances. When a few people become blissful in a group, it can spread a contagious vibration that helps the others experience their blissful potential.
I believe this is why SkyDancing Tantra revealed itself to me. It is a path that offers a supportive environment for individuals to explore their own truth, to share their love and bliss with one another.
The adventures I have described in this book all led, in one way or another, toward my initiation into the path of SkyDancing Tantra, and toward sharing my understanding of Tantra with the world.
The ultimate event in my personal journey, recounted in this chapter, was my awakening. Paradoxically, after all the searching and seeking, all my efforts to find meaning, this awakening happened in an unexpected way. It was as if my need to find a path and a method existed only in order for me to step beyond all paths and all methods.
But let’s go step by step …
Since the previous chapter brought us face to face with the shadow side of Tantra, I hope, in this last chapter, to share how the positive aspects of the teachings were revealed to me—in particular, my discovery of Tantra as a lineage.
Since the very beginning of my love life, I have realized that we inhabit many dimensions, including elusive dimensions that are revealed in dreams or visions. These involve aspects of consciousness that exist without needing to be anchored in a physical body.
I find it interesting to accept the possibility that one can navigate from one dimension to another. Moreover, Tantric literature abounds with examples of enlightened “facilitators” 64 who are not in a physical body yet can impart their help to the practitioner who, in deep meditation, is open to receive communication.
This happens through subtle means such as intuitive guidance—that inner voice that we all hear once in a while—and also visions and apparitions. Our cultural and religious history is filled with stories of unexpected appearances of spiritual guides. After all, this is how the Virgin Mary first received the message from the Holy Spirit about the arrival of Jesus.
For me, SkyDancing Tantra emerged out of an initial revelation during lovemaking, followed by various transmissions that gave direction to the path, revealing my mission within the lineage. They were imparted during out-of-body experiences, which I will describe shortly.
These initiations opened windows in my soul. Suddenly, entirely new landscapes were revealed to me, especially the SkyDancing lineage, which originated in ancient Tibet.
As we have already discussed, the first SkyDancer ever written about in scriptures translated into English was the Dakini Yeshe Tsogyal, consort of Buddha Padmasambhava, who lived around the eighth century AD, mostly in Tibet, India, and Bhutan.
In those days, a lineage consisted of a vast knowledge of the science of enlightenment, based on oral transmissions, scriptures, detailed rituals, and protocols established over centuries. Often, these were revealed through tertons, or spiritual treasures, buried or hidden in nature until, many centuries later, a certain spiritual practitioner would receive it in the form of a vision. It was then transmitted as a practice whose time had come.
A lineage transmits a tradition of teachings. It offers the blessings and protections of spiritual masters and practitioners who came through the lineage from its beginning. In ancient times, a new initiate coming into such a lineage would be required to follow very strict rules.
But when Tantra came to the West in the late seventies and early eighties, all this changed. Knowledge that had been codified and carefully structured became much more flexible, more fluid, and, dare I say, more fun. It was a bit like a serious old sage visiting a playful, young virgin, or like the crazy wisdom of Tantric Master Drukpa Kunley of Bhutan, who enjoyed mixing sex and meditation as a way to clear a place of demons.65
Even though only ten percent of traditional Tantra had to do with teachings about sexuality, this became the primary focus in the West—probably because sex had been divorced from spirit for far too long and it was time to heal the guilt and shame that was stifling our bliss.
This focus on sex isn’t a bad thing, but it’s not without implications. As the founder of the SkyDancing Tantra Love and Ecstasy Training, I owe much to the SkyDancing lineage in terms of the transformation of sexual energy into bliss.
As I pass on the mission of continuing this teaching to younger generations, I also find myself stepping away from being the “holder of a lineage” and the main representative of SkyDancing Tantra. Now, this unique school is being transformed. Now, younger people see this gift as a method they can practice and teach, but how many of them will really step into the embodiment of a lineage?
Is it possible to participate in a training, learn a method, mix it with other methods to make it your own, develop your own unique style, teach under your own authority, and still claim that you are transmitting a tradition?
I don’t know. I don’t presume to be an authority on the matter. In the past, it was easy to insist that a method, at least as far as Tantra is concerned, had to be transmitted in its pure, unadulterated form in order to carry the blessings of the masters who created the tradition.
But this has changed. Now, in the West, there has been a sort of diaspora of methods: a piece taken by this person over here, another piece taken by that person over there, and the whole movement conveniently packaged under the name of Tantra.
My personal reaction to these developments ranges from alarm to acceptance. Alarm because it all seems so casual compared to the gravitas, devotion, and patience required to embody a tradition and a lineage. Acceptance because, in my own heart, I know that essential qualities such as bliss, love, and meditation cannot be confined to any one lineage. They exist outside the box.
It all depends on the individual’s inner thirst, on the intensity of their spiritual quest, on discipline in regular spiritual practice, and many other elements.66 In other words, it’s up to you. If you want to go deeply into your own nature, you will find a way. Nothing can prevent you from doing so.
However, before letting go of the reins of the lineage, I’d like to explain how some important keys of SkyDancing Tantra were given to me.
One day, I received a scriptural text from my friend Lama, the Dzogchen teacher I mentioned in chapter nine. Lama told me this was an important purification practice in preparation for YabYum.
This preliminary purification required chanting the Hundred Syllable Mantra.”67 Associated with this mantra was the visualization of the Vajrasattva Buddha with the Dakini “Great Dignity” sitting on his lap in YabYum and the sound of the bija Hum continuously circulating in their hearts and pure white light emanating from their bodies. They are to be visualized above the heads of the couple who are practicing. Their light descends through each of the partner’s chakras and purifies them. Eventually, the deities gently lower themselves through the crown chakra of the practitioners, who in this way become the deities in embrace.
Recitation of this mantra is said to bring great benefit to the practitioner and has the effect of clearing away obstacles, conflicting emotions, and unresolved karmic debts.
Put very simply, the Hundred Syllable Mantra invites the blessings of the Buddha and the Dakini into one’s being as a means of purification. This meditation can be practiced by a single person as well as a couple.
Up to this point, I had known about the mantra, but I had not really warmed to it. I hadn’t gotten it. To me, it was interesting, but no more so than other Tibetan practices.
When I received Lama’s letter, I had just finished leading a group in the South of France in one of my favorite venues. My partner had left to visit his family in Switzerland, and I was beginning a period of silent retreat, eating only fruit and drinking only water.
My room had a balcony, with delicate wrought-iron work and a peach-colored terracotta floor, overlooking the mountains of Provence. The tiled roof beneath the balcony housed many birds. They chirped all day long and filled the area with lightness and joy.
I arranged a special meditation spot on the balcony, laying a thick bedcover on the tiled floor and covering it with pillows. Earlier, a friend had gifted me with a photo of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, who, so it was said, meditated for thirty years in mountain retreats and caves in Tibet and Bhutan. He was dressed in traditional Buddhist orange robes, looking straight ahead, as if directly into the camera, with a gentle smile on his face.
I set the picture on a low table, facing my meditation seat. After settling into a comfortable half-lotus posture, I closed my eyes and started breathing slowly through the nose, observing the cool air coming in on the inhale and warm air going out on the exhale.
The key to this technique is that it is impossible to get carried away by your thoughts when you watch your breathing. Instead, you become aware of yourself as consciousness, witnessing everything, like a spectator sitting on a balcony, watching life, thoughts, feelings, and sounds, in all their multicolored forms, parading across the screen of your mind while you stay anchored in your breath.
One day into the retreat, I was sitting with my eyes closed when I felt a sudden calling to open them. As I did so, my eyes were met in a powerful embrace with Dilgo Khyentse’s eyes, staring out at me from the photo.
I saw, with my inner eye (the “third eye,” which is set at the midpoint between the eyebrows), a ray of energy emanating from the picture toward me. It felt like Dilgo Khyentse was sending me his blessing.
I thought nothing more of it. I closed my eyes again and returned to my meditation, focusing inside, slowing down my breathing.
Suddenly, Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche appeared behind my third eye. In this vision, he was standing on my left side, facing me and holding a sword. With one swift sweep of the sword, he cut off the top of my head, which now seemed like an open pot.
Then, Dilgo Khyentse poured something inside my head. It took a little while for me to understand … he was pouring Sanskrit letters into my body, through the top of my head—letters comparable to the ones painted on the prayer wheels I had seen in Bhutan.
Dilgo Khyentse poured and poured. Then he closed the pot, so to speak, putting the lid back on my head, and disappeared.
Now, a mantra, a long mantra, started unfolding inside my being. It was being recited. Or was it reciting itself ? I was, no doubt, reciting it—and yet I was not doing anything. This was not happening of my own volition. How could it? I’d never heard this mantra recited before. It was a gift from Dilgo Khyentse. It was the Hundred Syllable Mantra.
From that moment, the mantra kept reciting itself day and night, uninterruptedly, like a prayer wheel being continuously turned inside me, with inner reverberations.
Something told me that this was a contribution to a deep cleansing of what Buddhists call samskaras—impurities—such as unconscious egoistic tendencies, envy, anger, jealousy, and old resentments, as well as physical tensions and contractions that these passions had left inside my body.
The mantra was functioning rather like a Roto-Rooter, which is used to clean clogged pipes in house plumbing. It was a magical but far from comfortable process, since it forced me to look at unfinished business in my past that I’d conveniently “forgotten” about.
One big issue that I encountered was the fear that I was not being loved for who I was but rather for what I represented—the fear of being used as a jumping board into another world by those who professed to love me. I saw it all. I let it go.
Gradually, I started to feel an immense gratitude for this remarkable process that, most of the time, was going on completely independently of my will or even my attention.
On the fourth day of the retreat, in the late afternoon, there was a knock on the door. I opened it and my boyfriend walked in. Sergio looked frazzled. His shoulder-length, curly black hair was a mess. His face was covered with a stubble several days old, and he had dark rings under his eyes. In other words, this usually vibrant twenty-eight-year-old was decidedly droopy and floppy.
Sergio was not due for another three days, and, truth be told, I was not too happy to see him. We were sharing the room and he had no other place to stay. On top of that, he seemed thoroughly depressed. It seemed as if his spirit were stuck in a swamp or buried beneath layers of fog.
I felt split. Part of me wanted to help him and part of me wanted him to leave so I could continue my retreat.
Compassion won out. Naturally, I was taken out of my process. The mantra quietly receded into the background and for some days I contributed to Sergio’s healing, listening to him talk about his family problems.
While I was holding him in my arms, I wondered if the Hundred Syllable Mantra could conveniently “jump over” to him and help with the process. No such luck! There were no shortcuts. I had to be patient, being fully present with my lover and helping in whichever way spontaneously arose.
This brought me face to face with an existential dilemma. I realized that on several occasions in the past, whenever I was meditating deeply and feeling content to be alone, at that very moment, on that very day, a man, usually my partner, would show up and try to claim the territory by asserting his emotional ownership of this Shakti who was blissed-out all on her own.
Is it not so that men, especially men in love, want to make sure that the lady is blissed-out because of them, not independently? And, if they have nothing or very little to do with it, they will try to bring her to their own, more familiar level of consciousness, so they can feel more secure and feel that “we speak the same language.”
The truth is that, in bliss, when the inner sun is shining, one doesn’t need anyone or anything. One is alone and fulfilled. This is true freedom and is, for me, the most attractive of all states. Well, it is not a state, really, but our ever-present source—a tickle, a hunger to serve the world and a love of adventure all in one.
Luckily, my professional obligations often led to unexpected escapades, which carried special significance for me. In one such instance, I was invited to speak at a health congress in Toronto. As a result, I ended up participating, unexpectedly, in a Kalachakra ceremony conducted by the Dalai Lama. The Kalachakra was a weeklong ceremony, with about a thousand people present, because although Kalachakra is an advanced, highly esoteric practice in Tibetan Tantric Buddhism, there is a tradition of offering it to large public audiences, so all can benefit.
The ceremony is loaded with Tantric symbolism. Historically, the original Kalachakra Tantra teaching is said to have been given as a purification by Gautam Buddha to Suchandra, ruler of the mythical kingdom of Shambala, who wanted to know how to practice the dharma without renouncing worldly responsibilities and sexual pleasure with his wives.
On this occasion, in Toronto, the Dalai Lama was teaching the Kalachakra mostly in Tibetan, and there was an English translator. At some point, as part of the ceremony, His Holiness was presented with a lotus flower. He took a petal from the flower, held it up, and then let it fall onto a large mandala that had been created by monks on the floor of the hall.
Mandalas are powerful images or, rather, visual maps of consciousness, composed of highly decorative and intricate patterns, made of colored sand, and symbolizing different aspects of the universe, both spiritual and temporal.
In his gesture, dropping the lotus petal, the Dalai Lama was allowing the flower to fall as it wished, knowing that the position in which it rested on the mandala would convey a certain meaning to him, to the monks, and to us all.
It was announced that the petal had fallen on the southern abode of Buddha Ratnasambhava, one of the five Dhyani Buddhas who serve as the guardians of contemplation. Ratnasambhava inspires equanimity and helps us to destroy the passions of greed and pride.
Shortly thereafter, several lamas attending to His Holiness moved along the rows, giving each of us a lotus petal and a red thread as a blessing from the Dalai Lama.
As I received the lotus petal and thread, the lama passing in front of me looked into my eyes, smiled, and gently laid his hand on the crown of my head.
Something happened. I found myself glued to my chair, my eyes closed, taking off into a meditation and revelation I will never forget.
At first, I was immersed in an overwhelming feeling of receptivity and humility, as if I were about to receive an important understanding or a gift.
Then I found myself feeling light and buoyant, floating in another realm. Out of nowhere, the figure of Buddha Padmasambhava appeared in the distance, above my head to the right, flying in the sky. This was the Buddha whom I had first met, all those years ago, in the form of a golden statue in YabYum with his consort, Yeshe Tsogyal, in the Guimet Museum in Paris.
Now, in my vision, Padmasambhava was alone. He seemed huge, with a very big belly, sitting in the lotus posture, holding a staff, with silks billowing all around him. He wore his traditional Tibetan hat with flapping ear covers.
His large, square face was easily recognizable by his thin, pencil-like black moustache and large, fierce eyes. This Buddha was, I knew, revered throughout Tibet and Bhutan as the being who, in the eighth century AD, brought Buddhism to those countries, subduing demons, educating kings, and enlightening Dakinis through, among others, YabYum Tantric practices.
Padmasambhava’s eyes glanced in my direction, emitting a laserlike beam of light, and it became instantly clear to me that he was completely in charge. Whatever was going to happen, I had nothing to say about it.
In the vision, I bowed to him in a prostration position, laying my forehead on the ground at his feet. I was elated, scared, excited. My body felt like jelly. I tried to talk to him, but before I knew it, he had caught hold of my long hair and was dragging me around, completely oblivious to my protests.
The most incongruous thoughts were arising in my psyche, such as “what bad manners!” I had never imagined a Buddha would treat me this way. If this rough treatment was designed to crush my ego in preparation for what was to come, it certainly worked!
Before I had time to recover, Padmasambhava pulled me onto his lap, over his robes, and I found myself sitting in YabYum with him. His big belly made my position somewhat precarious. I had to grab hold of him because the next moment he had taken off and was now flying once more, with me holding on for dear life.
He was flying high above an ocean. I looked down and became terrified. What if I couldn’t hold on? I would surely drown. We were too high. Not a piece of land in sight. Well, at least if I fell, I wouldn’t break my bones … or would I?
Padmasambhava kept pirouetting in the blue sky, his silk robes trailing behind him, one of them sometimes catching in my face, temporarily blinding me.
This odd situation must seem fanciful, a flight of imagination. But to me, in that moment, it was vividly alive and so real that no other reality existed.
You might think I would feel honored to be sitting on Padmasambhava’s lap and receiving this first-class Tantric “transportation,” but I didn’t see it that way. I was too scared.
Then I got it: Padmasambhava would continue to pirouette in the sky for as long as I remained afraid. I had to transcend the fear. I had to trust him—in fact, trust him blindly.
Finally, after some time, I started to relax and appreciate the situation. In response, Padmasambhava landed with a thump in the middle of what looked like a huge mandala. I dismounted and saluted him deeply, once again. He put his hand on my head as a sign of his blessing.
In the mandala were sitting the five Dhyani Buddhas: in the south, Ratnasambhava in the color red; in the north, Buddha Amoghasiddhi in green; in the west, Buddha Amitabha in orange and yellow; in the east, Buddha Padmasambhava in hues of red, gold, and blue; and in the center, Buddha Vairocana in silvery white.
Padmasambhava continued to occupy my attention, and I soon saw that on his left, also seated on the mandala, were seven Dakinis of stunning beauty. They were dressed in expensive silk robes and looked regal, like women of noble families. Each Dakini was surrounded by a soft radiance, which enveloped me as I prostrated myself in front of each one, feeling profound respect and deep gratitude for the honor of being with them.
In response to my devotional greeting, each Dakini offered a blessing as she silently touched my head or heart, and each one looked into my soul with eyes that conveyed a loving welcome.
Padmasambhava then told me, “Welcome to the family of the Dakinis.”
In response, I sat down next to the last of the Dakinis, on his left. This, I knew, was my place on the mandala. Later, I took this initiation to be an empowerment to teach SkyDancing Tantra, since Dakinis are traditionally called “awakeners” in Buddhism.
After a long moment of sitting there, with eyes closed, I felt myself leaving this magical realm and gently returning to my chair in the hall of the Kalachakra ceremony. I looked at my watch. Two hours had elapsed. For two hours, I had been utterly gone.
As I returned, I noticed the big mandala on the floor, next to the Dalai Lama, where his petal had fallen, and it reminded me of my inner vision. His Holiness continued to recite the mantras of the Kalachakra, and I felt grateful for his presence, symbolizing the transmission of spiritual secrets all the way back to the Gautam Buddha himself.
To me, this vision was the conclusion of a series of initiations, both in this physical dimension and beyond it, which encouraged me to transmit the teachings of the SkyDancing path.
I had received formal explanations from my friend Lama. I had received the necessary purification through the Hundred Syllable Mantra from Dilgo Khyentse. Now I had been welcomed into the Dakini family, which effectively opened a channel of contact with Buddha Padmasambhava. Taken together, I felt I had been given the authority to transmit the YabYum meditation practice that I came to call riding the Wave of Bliss.
Confirmation to teach was conveyed to me in person by Sogyal Rinpoche, a Tibetan Dzogchen teacher and author of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, while we were both participating as guest speakers at a conference on Tantra on La Gomera in the Canary Islands.
However, a lineage and a teaching can only serve as protection and support for an individual’s spiritual quest. Each person’s awakening is unique and has its own timing, character, and flavor. So I would like to conclude this book with an account of how it happened to me.
For this, we need to return to an ashram in India, where, on a cool winter’s evening in February 1988, I was sitting with about a thousand disciples in front of Osho.
He had just finished giving a discourse on Zen, rounding it off with a couple of racy jokes, and was now leading us into a “gibberish” and “let go” meditation.
“Speak any kind of language you don’t understand,” coached Osho. “You are carrying so much mental rubbish. This is the right moment to throw it out.”
Boom!
A thunderous hit on a huge drum was the signal for us to start loudly uttering all kinds of nonsense sounds and imaginary words, as a way of unloading the clutter in our heads. Our eyes were closed, which was just as well, because the entire hall must have looked like a madhouse.
After a few minutes …
Boom!
The next drumbeat sounded the signal for total silence.
“Let your body become completely frozen, no movement,” instructed Osho. “Now, look in! Gather all your energy and rush like an arrow to the center of your being.”
A few minutes more and then …
Boom!
“Now, let go,” continued Osho. “Let yourself fall down, wherever you are. Feel that your whole being has relaxed. Let go.”
Let’s switch to the present tense …
Each of us has indeed fallen back on … well, whatever is behind us: the marble floor, their shawl or cushion, a person’s foot, arm, or belly.
It is a bit of a challenge to let go in these cramped quarters, with everyone lying on everyone else, but it doesn’t matter. Only Osho’s gentle voice matters. Now, with a relaxed but alert consciousness, I let go of any tensions in my body as best I can.
“Feel the Buddha within,” says Osho. “Allow this Buddha to be with you. Let the Buddha inside accompany you as you go about your life. Be the Buddha. You are the Buddha. Remember it!”
Boom!
“Now gently come back, as a Buddha.”
This signals the end of evening meeting with Osho. After his departure, each of us, quietly and slowly, gathers any personal belongings and leaves the hall.
This evening, I feel particularly touched by the idea that “I am a Buddha.” I never saw myself as such until this moment. I imagine how it must be. I try to walk and feel as if I am an enlightened female Buddha—how, for example, a Buddha walks along the street to go home, which I am now doing.
I must explore this further: “I am a Buddha.” I laugh and make up a new name: I am a female Buddhakini! I like this name. A Buddhakini slows things down. A Buddhakini seems to carry a special awareness, a consciousness that is both mindful of herself yet is paying close attention to what is all around.
It feels as if there are subtle antennae emerging from my ears, expanding far and wide, letting me take in the most distant, subtle sounds. I hear crickets close by in the bushes, the distant cry of a child, someone coughing in a house as I pass by …
It all merges into a sort of benevolent symphony. It has a rhythm; waves are unfolding, engulfing me, including the pulses inside my body: the rhythmic heartbeat, the lungs rising and falling, the soft “thump, thump” of my feet on the ground as I walk along the street.
So much life! How does a Buddha perceive this? As consciousness peeping through the doors of the senses. As pure presence, absorbing an outrageous world full of sounds and scents and ever-changing skies. Every perception is an invitation to a revelation … hearing, seeing, smelling … so many ways of knowing creation.
Slowly, my steps take me along the street and across the next boulevard, where I enter a dusty driveway surrounded by trees and bushes. Beyond this unkempt, wild garden, I enter into the house and climb to my upstairs bedroom.
I sit on my meditation zafu pillow on the bed. I feel like listening, being quiet. All is peaceful. Night is falling. I light a candle. The flame throws phantasmagorical shadows all around me. It is comfortable here in this twilight zone.
As I close my eyes and relax more and more, it seems the body takes on less importance. In fact, it has almost disappeared. What remains is a soft and receptive consciousness … watching. Time goes by and becomes timeless.
Suddenly, I hear a sharp sound like snap! combined with a softer swishhh—the kind of sound that could be produced by hitting the back of a chair with a bunch of small tree branches. The sound seems to happen inside my brain, but it is also resonating around me.
Then silence.
In this moment, everything changes forever.
It is as if the hand of God is wiping out all resentment, all lingering anger, all reproaches and judgments, from my being. No words can adequately convey the immediacy and depth of this transformation.
I am living, breathing, thinking, but there is not an ounce of fear, sadness, or resistance in my entire body-mind system. No reproach, no remaining resentment, no old, negative memories, no leftover anger.
Actually, there is not even a “me” left, either.
I watch, amazed, taking it all in. I pinch myself, asking, “Is this for real?”
So what is it that remains here?
I start to inquire, timidly at first, without moving an inch on my pillow, keeping things exactly as they are, in this miraculous, new, benign, accepting, joyful is-ness.
Who is it that’s sitting here?
“Nobody,” comes the answer.
But this is extraordinary!
“No, it is completely ordinary and normal,” comes the reply. “This is how reality is: normal, simple, transparent, and perfectly okay. You are not. The whole is. Tat Tvam Asi … ‘that art thou.’ ”
Nothing … and yet everything.
I close my eyes. I feel enveloped by grace. A great blessing has just been granted. For the first time ever, I am without fear, without contraction, without boundaries, without division. All is perfect. Life is. As it should be.
As I watch, it becomes evident that there is no boundary between what is inside and what is outside the body, no separation between what is good and not good. No more choice is needed. All that was, is, and will ever be is … now. It is complete, perfect, and yet unimportant, because it has always been so and is therefore no big deal.
And yet I delight in this subtle joy, in this gentle presence in my heart. How can something so extraordinary be so very ordinary? And isn’t this the greatest joke of all time?
For a moment, sitting there, grinning, I contemplate all my efforts in times past: the struggle to get what I wanted, the fears that I would be cheated, the mistrust that others might be lying to me, the need to believe that I was the best Tantra teacher on the planet, the unfinished business with siblings, acquaintances, lovers, co-leaders, and participants in my programs.
All of this and more has been wiped out by the hand of the divine. Now, I am freshly delivered, newly born, with a clean slate, with a mind expanded so wide that it has no boundaries and—oh, miracle of miracles—not even any need to think. In fact, there is no mind, but rather a boundless consciousness aware of “being.”
The ground of being is at once finite and infinite, immanent and transcendent. Intuitively, I realize there is no god or goddess, no divinity as a person, no external reference point, no other presence but this unified awareness, watching itself.
That which is perceiving and that which is being perceived are one and the same. I am that. One with it. And so the night unfolds in this feeling of gratitude and wonder, until I fall asleep.
The next morning I wake up, still dressed, lying on the bed. I pinch myself to check: is the blessing still here? The answer is yes. The transparent, fearless perfection of contentment is still with me.
Now that this is established, I must learn to adjust to “everyday living.” How does one move through unquestioned perfection, from moment to moment? For example, I wonder how breakfast would look from this new vantage point.
My heart notes that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do … no particular desires. Yet, a curiosity arises: it might be interesting to go outside and see how this new awareness, this new awakeness, feels in the light of day.
I move in slow motion, adjusting to the vastness of every perception. Through the door and down the steps I go, one gentle step at a time. And now, outside, I walk.
The plants in the gardens and on the street have a soft shine to them. The plants are alive, radiant with iridescent reflections, a perpetual flow of life force moving through them. And it is such a delight. I am like a child in front of a Christmas tree. I go slowly in order to take it all in.
I notice a bush overflowing with brilliant red flowers. I am this bush. The red is within and without. I am what is being seen, smelled, and heard. I am that. It is complete in itself.
The whole universe shines through this one red flower. Silence emerges and pervades me even through the noise of the traffic. I walk very slowly.
And now, on the sidewalk, just around the corner, I see the face of my local chai wallah, as if for the first time. I see the lines on his brow, the sweat on his temples, the willingness in his heart, the smile behind the frown. His chai is a delight, made in heaven, sweet, strong, and spicy. I sip it slowly and thank him. He is happy. His happiness is my enjoyment. All is the same. No different.
Eventually, I arrive at the ashram. Walking through the gate, I sit on a bench and take it all in. Over the next hour, friends gather around me. I say little. They comment that I seem changed, an inspiration, a joy to be with. They like to hang out here with me on this bench. They ask me questions. I try to answer.
I guess it is this inner glow that my friends perceive. In fact, this is contagious, because now I see a Buddha in every being around me. I see the intrinsic beauty of every Buddha as we are hanging out together, laughing, drunk on blissfulness. They feel it, too.
The mind has no job. There is nothing to do, nothing to prefer over anything else, no decisions to be made, no wanting, willing, or deciding. Everything happens spontaneously, as if guided in harmony and synchronicity with the flow of the moment.
We gossip, but it is more like telling a tale, while holding no judgment about someone else. These tales are stories without consequence, harmless, like funny jokes told by a group of Buddhas to amuse themselves while hanging out in paradise.
And so the day moves on, from one moment to the next. Each moment is equally sacred, and in each moment I enjoy this new consciousness. It is satisfying to see all beings and all things as equally remarkable, equally a reflection of the oneness of all that is, and equally ordinary.
Two days later, it is my shopping day. I have to take a rickshaw 68 to Mahatma Gandhi Road, the nearest shopping area in Poona, to buy various staples for my house. I decide to use this excursion as a test. Can I remain light and transparent, as I feel now, through the hustle and bustle of a crowded Indian street, with hundreds of pedestrians, honking rickshaws, meandering cows, and barking dogs? Can this blessing persist unchanged in the center of a cyclone unleashed by life in an overcrowded Indian city?
When my rickshaw arrives, I get out and walk into a shop where they sell a certain kind of coarse silk material I need for the house. I wait patiently—very unusual for me until now—and when the shop owner comes to me, I ask for what I need.
He shows me the cloth. I choose a pattern I like. We measure and he cuts the cloth with a huge pair of scissors. It is all very simple and graceful. He keeps looking at me. He seems happy. I am pleased, too. Our smiles trigger a spark of appreciation for the awakeness that, in this moment, belongs to both of us. It is time to pay. I take out my wallet.
“No, no,” says the shop owner. “You no pay for this. Sit here. Be at rest. Have cup chai.”
After two minutes, he returns with a steaming cup of delicious chai, and I sit there for a while, sipping the tea, watching him serve other customers, enjoying this moment, so simple and yet so unique because of the secret complicity between us.
When it is time to go, the shopkeeper still refuses to let me pay, so I thank him and leave, marveling at the sixth sense Indian people have regarding spiritual insight and meditative states. They know intuitively when someone is “high,” and they are ready to enjoy and encourage it.
I go to four other shops. Not one of the shopkeepers accepts payment from me. All offer me chai. It is magical, a gift from the master.
Now let’s return to the past tense …
A few weeks later, still in this state of graceful awakeness, the moment came to leave India. I asked myself, “‘What is the most important thing to do while I am awake?”
“Go back to your roots,” came the inner voice. As I inquired further, an image of my parents arose in my consciousness. I could feel how my love for them had, in the past, been tainted by resistances and resentments, requiring endless therapy and healing. But now that these were gone, how would it be to see them? They had always been a proud, self-sufficient, independent couple. How could I give back the love and care they had given me?
So I went to Paris to visit them. I remember ringing the doorbell with trepidation. Would things be different? Mother opened the door. She looked positively radiant, with her curly white hair well-coiffed, as usual, and her face illumined by a big smile. I felt a deep love flowing from her heart into my heart. I hugged her, enjoying her being so frail yet so welcoming.
Father was in the living room. The rather massive bulk of his tall body sat on the sofa. He was, as usual, formally dressed, English style, with a brown tweed blazer and gray flannel pants. A big, mischievous grin beamed across his face. With him also, I could feel a genuine happiness to be reunited. As usual, he told stories from his life that were supposed to be funny but that I had, in the past, secretly found rather irrelevant. But far from me to let him know that I had already heard them.
My parents had prepared the traditional welcome dinner for me, which began with beluga caviar and vodka—my father’s favorites. The pungent, fishy taste of caviar and the sting of vodka will remain with me forever.
The next day, I invited my parents to their favorite restaurant. Usually it was the other way around—they invited me and Father paid the bill. It was a matter of pride. But this time would be special. This time, I wanted to give them something different from our usual routine—an important message. So we slowly walked together to their favorite restaurant, Chez Laurent on the Champs-Elysées.
During our lunch, before dessert, for the first time ever, I was able to take my father’s hand in mine, look into his eyes, and tell him what I appreciated in him, how grateful I was for the life he had given me and the way he had raised me.
“Papa,” I said, “thank you for giving me a hard time and teaching me the strength to know what I want—and to stand for it. Thank you for coming to India to visit me in the ashram and for reading the manuscript of my book. Thank you for paying the bills when I was almost dying of typhoid in the hospital in Paris. Thank you for caring. I love you. You are the best.”
At first, my father was completely flabbergasted. All his life, he had favored a tough-guy style and consequently had been mostly critical of my shortcomings as a way of preparing me for the hard challenges of the world. But now this tall, proud, imposing old warrior of eighty-two had tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, simply, and we hugged. During this hug, I sent all my gratitude into his heart.
The waiter brought the dessert. After a taste of the mousse au chocolat, I took my mother’s hand in mine, looked into her eyes, heart to heart, took a deep breath, and said: “Maman cherie, merci de m’avoir aimée et soutenue aussi unconditionellement toute notre vie. Thanks for loving me and accepting me so unconditionally all my life. You did everything possible for me. You gave me an impeccable education.
“I am sorry for turning into a counterculture hippie in America instead of marrying a prince like you wanted. But here we are! We all did well. And you loved me through it. Thank you.”
Yes, a few more tears fell in the choco mousse. Mom and I hugged. We were complete. I felt content. All the past difficulties were now laid to rest.
A few weeks later, my father passed away. I was not there when it happened, but I am glad we had that moment of healing and completion.
I realized, from this experience, that I would now stop calling myself a “therapist” and start calling myself a “celebration partner.”
And you, too, dear reader, have been my celebration partner, throughout this book.
What I Learned
Awakening is nothing special. Can you believe it? Here I was staking my life on this event … and it happened. And it is NOTHING SPECIAL! How is that possible?
Well, for one thing, there are those for whom it happens once and for all, and there are those for whom awakening comes and goes. For another, this event can be fierce and earth-shaking, or it can be gentle like a dew drop falling off a rose petal in the morning.
In my own moment of awakening, the spirit of Tantra revealed itself like a dancing Dakini, bouncing onto the stage. And she said to me, “Stop seeking! You are already here!”
Isn’t it amazing, this paradox of having made so many efforts, taken so many seminars, received so many initiations, practiced so many types of yoga, to finally arrive at this moment of utter simplicity and ease of being?
Yet, undoubtedly, each and every one of those efforts was necessary and played a part in arriving at this naked simplicity. We all have to go through this hero’s journey, but each of us can keep the focus on our awakening, inviting this blissful ease into our being.
I saw, in retrospect, that I had been misguided. I had carried the sense that I was not good enough as I was; hence, I needed an outside model, a teacher. That teacher was, naturally, “better” than me, more evolved.
With this comparison came hopelessness. And I was also aware of an inner judge who kept repeating, “You will probably not wake up! But it is good to try. Try harder! You need more discipline, greater daily efforts.”
That was the masculine way. But I was drying up inside through this monastic perspective. I had taken all the moralistic religious clichés with me onto the meditation pillow. I was sitting, trying to meditate, battling with my mind, ordering it to shut up, telling thoughts to go away.
There was the “good me,” who, once in a while, earned a few seconds of peace as a reward for all this hard work. And there was the “bad me,” who could not be disciplined and do her practice consistently—who wanted to cut loose and drink a glass of wine and eat a good piece of meat, but felt terribly guilty about it.
After awakening, I find I can relax, let go, and invite the good, the bad, and the ugly to the same party. It is no longer a matter of moral judgment, but rather of discrimination.
Most of our problems are due to the fact that we say no to reality as it presents itself. We say, “No, not like this. Not that. I want something else.” In this way, we write off the possibility of loving what is and we pass up the opportunity to learn something very important: what if everything is perfect, including imperfection?
The inner voice says, “It could be better. I could be slimmer. She has a boyfriend and I don’t. It’s not fair.” The comparisons are endless, so we must learn to receive what the mind presents with indifference, say thank you, and move on. When I teach a seminar, I say: “The key is not to fight, not to feel guilty, not to feel that something is good or bad. In spite of your deep-seated self-doubt, you’re not the kid who is punished and has to stand in a corner, facing the wall. You’re the kid who is invited to the party. So my advice is: eat the chocolate mousse and enjoy yourself!”
The Practice: The Circle of Bliss
In your imagination, create and invite your personal council, which I call the Guardians of Bliss. This council is composed of children, men, and women—people you love and cherish, people who love you in return, including teachers, guides, angels, in the body and beyond it, in this life and beyond it. This council will be the guardians who make sure the coming party is a success.
In your imagination, prepare the setting for a great party. Set up the decorations: multicolored banners and balloons floating above tables set with champagne and your favorite juices, nuts, fruits, and chocolate—and, of course, music!
Create your Circle of Bliss: a large circle enclosed by round stones, crystals, and candles. With your inner eye, see the fractals of candlelight reflected through the crystals, shining everywhere. They are fractals of bliss, shining and dancing with your spirit like stars in the sky.
Now invite yourself to the party. Sit in the center of the Circle of Bliss. Feel that “bliss is already within me.” Relax into this experience, soaking yourself in bliss. Breathe deeply and slowly, inhaling life, exhaling light … aaaaahhh … for one minute, which can feel like an eternity. Do not suppress the part that wants to stay active, the thoughts that percolate with excitement, wanting to act, to create. Do not suppress this love-play between the formless and form. Thank the thoughts as they arise and allow them to move on … and get back to the formless.
Now all is ready, so invite your vrittis. Welcome them as honored guests to your party. These vrittis are all those tendencies that you disliked or avoided. Let them enter this sanctuary of celebration, this Shambala of the soul. All are welcome here. All can be healed here. Whatever was judged as bad or unwelcome can now dissolve in the acceptance of love. Dissolve everything into bliss.
More guests are coming. Invite them into your circle, greeting fear, attachment, aversion, envy, ignorance, doubt, self-judgment, clinging, neediness, etc. See yourself welcoming each of those aspects of your character. This is you. Invite each of these “yous” for a drink. Offer them a glass of champagne. Invite them to a dance called “Rock the Vrittis.”
As you celebrate, say to yourself, “I accept my fear. I am afraid, and it is okay.”
Feel this constriction. Go deep into it. Release it into the vibration of excitement. Yes, fear is a kind of holding back, a kind of shrinking in expectation of a catastrophic outcome. But now, can you feel that fear is really a form of constricted excitement? And, if you relax into it, the body starts to shake, rattle, and roll, and it becomes a blissful vibration drenched in joy, a wild energy drunk with life.
Next say, “I accept my attachment.”
Attachment has shown me how to let go.
“I accept my neediness.”
It shows me how to unshackle my spirit. I celebrate freedom.
“I accept my self-judgment.”
It motivates me to transcend my limitations.
“I accept my envy.”
It shows me ways of being that I can emulate, and feel inspired by.
The heart of the universe pulses in all hearts.
There is One who is the life in all forms.
There is One who is joyful in simply existing—
In all bodies,
As all bodies.
Explore the life that is the life of your present form.
One day you will discover
It is not different
From the life of the Secret One,
And your heart will sing triumphant songs
Of being at home everywhere.69
64. See Passionate Enlightenment by Miranda Shaw (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994).
65. See The Divine Madman, translated by Keith Dowman and Sonam Paljor (Middletown, CA: Dawn Horse Press, 1998).
66. See Secret of the Vajra World: The Tantric Buddhism of Tibet by Reginald A. Ray (Boston, MA: Shambhala, 2002).
67. See appendix 2. This practice is done in the third cycle of the Love and Ecstasy Training of SkyDancing Tantra.
68. A three-wheeler motorbike taxi.
69. Lorin Roche, The Radiance Sutras (Boulder, CO: Sounds True, 2014), Sutra 77.