Open secret

“Ronseal” is a brand of transparent wood treatment. It is famous for the slogan “does exactly what it says on the tin.” Aro is like that—and, unlike Ronseal, it contains absolutely no castor oil.

Internal and external reasons for secrecy

Vajrayana Buddhism was traditionally secret—at least in theory. Its practices and doctrines were reserved for those who had undergone suitable initiation rituals. These might be difficult to get—depending on who you were.

There are many different reasons Vajrayana was secret. That is a fascinating topic, but I am resisting the urge to go into detail. Instead, I will suggest that there are key internal and external reasons for secrecy. The internal reasons have to do with the principles and functions of Vajrayana itself. External reasons have to do with the historical, cultural, social, and political environment surrounding Vajrayana.

The biggest external reason for secrecy was that Vajrayana has always been subject to political oppression. Even where it was the official state religion, its expression was extensively regulated and censored by the powerful. This has meant that some aspects, at least, of Vajrayana always had to be hidden in Asia.

disastrous Buddhas

Vajrayana is seen as dangerous by rulers because it empowers individuals. At worst, it produces Buddhas. That can be disastrous. Buddhas disrupt smooth institutional functioning. They pop up out of nowhere, are accountable to no one, teach strange dangerous ideas, inspire fanatical devotion among their followers, and may act as an independent political force that cannot be predicted or controlled.

an open buffet

The Nyingma tradition has had almost no political power for the past thousand years. Perhaps for that reason, it has the least interest in secrecy among the Tibetan Buddhist Schools. The other (Sarma) Schools generally have a set, linear curriculum. Each stage was revealed only when you have mastered the previous one. Nyingma teachers (including the Aro lamas) tend toward a more freewheeling approach. They present an open buffet of doctrines and practices, from which students (in consultation with their teachers) choose depending on their preferences and abilities.

Both of these approaches are valid. Each may be more appropriate for particular sorts of students. That brings us to the most important of the internal reasons for secrecy.

More exciting if you don’t read ahead

Some Vajrayana concepts make no sense until you completely understand others, or until you have sufficient meditation experience. Some Vajrayana practices are useless until you have sufficient understanding and experience. Therefore, there is a natural loose sequence to the Vajrayana teachings.

There is an advantage to not knowing about a stage of understanding and practice until you are ready for it. If you wait until you are ready, it is fresh and exciting and perhaps a bit shocking. It has more impact. The buffet approach is like getting all your presents at once, without wrapping paper. You might look everything over excitedly and then walk away. This is the biggest internal reason for secrecy.

On the other hand, there is also an advantage to “reading ahead in the book.” The first several stages of Buddhist study and practice can be a long boring slog—years of preliminary work before you get to the good bits. (Depending on your personality, of course. I’ve found all the stages of Buddhism I’ve encountered to be enjoyable, but people differ.) Having something to look forward to can provide inspiration in the early stages. This is particularly true in Western cultures that provide no social encouragement for Buddhism.

Vajrayana secrecy today

The external reasons for secrecy are irrelevant in the West. In democratic countries, we do not have to worry about persecution by governments. Other Buddhists are the main opponents of Vajrayana traditions; and they can usually be politely ignored.

Liberal Tibetans recognized this 25 years ago. As a result, Vajrayana secrecy is mostly gone. Pioneers like Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and Chögyal Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche taught openly in the West doctrines and practices that were reserved for the elite in Tibet. At first, they got a lot of flak from more conservative Tibetan lamas. Now everyone recognizes that the genie is permanently out of the bottle, for better or worse. English-language books contain general explanations (at minimum) of all major doctrines and practices.

What remain secret are the details of specific versions of practices. This is to make it impossible to do the practice without having received “transmission” from a qualified teacher. For example, any large bookstore has detailed explanations of how yidam practice works. Each yidam, however, has a mantra, and usually a chanted sadhana text. You need those to actually practice the yidam. Mantras and sadhanas are mostly unique to specific traditions, and are mainly kept secret.

Transparency and secrecy in Aro

Aro is one of the best-documented Vajrayana lineages. In addition to several books, the Aro web sites have thousands of pages of information. This is a “what you see is what you get” situation. Like Ronseal, Aro simply does what it says on the web site.

That is helpful, because it makes it easier to decide whether Aro is a “good fit” for you. It could take much more effort to decide whether some other traditions, about which little is publicly known, are a good fit.

The Aro lamas have been careful not to reveal publicly anything that has not previously been revealed by ethnically Tibetan lamas. However, now that virtually everything is public, secrets within the Aro tradition are limited to details of practices, such as the words of mantras.

Apprentice retreat

Aro offers weekend retreats that are open to the public, and longer ones for Aro apprentices only. Public retreats feature talks, extensive question-and-answer sessions, instruction in meditation techniques, and some time for meditation practice.

Apprentices generally attend two apprentice-only retreats per year. These are the most intensive occasions for the Lamas’ teaching, and the most important gatherings of the sangha (community). If you are interested in Aro apprenticeship, it may be helpful to learn what our retreats are like.

I will show lots of photographs; a picture is worth many words.

Apprentice retreats usually last about five days. Here is the typical daily schedule:

• 7:00-9:00 a.m. Formal meditation practice

• 9:30-10:00 Breakfast

• 10:30-1:00 p.m. Formal teaching

• 1:00-2:00 Lunch

• 2:30-6:30 Crafts, physical exercises, and special projects

• 7:00 Dinner

• 8:30-late Teaching or empowerment

The final evening of the retreat is Celebration, and the next morning tsok.

This is the format used by my Lamas, Ngak’chang Rinpoche and Khandro Déchen. The retreats of the other Aro Lamas may be a little different.

Morning practice

The day starts with two hours of formal practice. This is mainly silent sitting meditation. Every twenty minutes or so, we sing a yogic song.

For some, two hours of sitting meditation might seem impossibly difficult. If you are used to sitting sessions of thirty minutes at home, the leap to two hours might seem out of the question. It is easier with the support of a group, however. Many apprentices sit in chairs, which is easier on the knees than sitting on the floor. And the yogic singing breaks the monotony of silent meditation.

For some, two hours of sitting meditation might seem pathetically easy. If you are used to intensive meditation retreats, which might have twelve hours of silent sitting a day, two hours might seem to be kid stuff. In the Aro tradition, we also do intensive meditation retreats—but they are done solo. Because meditation can be done solo, group retreats are mainly devoted to activities that require a group.

The photograph above shows apprentices playing Tibetan instruments to accompany one of the songs. (Pictures of people meditating are rather dull!)

The striped shawls we wear are symbolic, but also practical. Apprentice retreats are usually held in late Autumn and early Spring, and it is cold early in the morning.

Morning teaching

Between breakfast and lunch, the lamas teach. Sometimes they prepare a specific topic and discuss it in depth. (That is also what they do at public retreats.) Ideally, instead, they would like apprentice retreat teaching to be driven mainly by our questions. That is the way teachers can be most useful to close students. Unfortunately, we apprentices generally fail to ask enough questions.

So the teaching period usually begins with an out-loud reading of the current draft of whatever book or essay the Lamas are writing. We interrupt to ask questions about that—and those questions often lead into extended discussions and detailed teaching on other topics. Besides prompting questions, this format gives the Lamas feedback on their writing. In many cases, transcripts of these question-and-answer sessions are incorporated directly into their books.

Meals and social time

Much of the retreat day is dedicated to meals, or is not formally scheduled. This is not “time off”—it is actually when it is most important for us to be “on.” It gives room for informal teaching, informal transmission, and the practice of sangha. These are more important than anything on the formal schedule.

The practice of sangha

“Sangha” means “Buddhist community.” In our case, it is the community of Aro apprentices.

Although a sangha is a “community,” it is not a social group in the usual sense. A sangha is an artificial community, bound by a commitment to practice, rather than the usual considerations of friendship, practical cooperation, and power dynamics.

Sangha is primarily a practice. The practice of sangha is to be kind and open within a somewhat random group. Ideally, as Buddhists, we aspire to be entirely kind and open to everyone and everything, everywhere. Ideally, as Tantrikas, we aspire to see all beings as perfect Buddhas. Naturally, we frequently fail—but not always. Our sangha is the best place to make a particular effort.

Inevitably, many of our fellow apprentices we would not have chosen as friends. Many, we may have little in common with­—apart from our commitment. Some, we might even dislike—if we were not committed otherwise. Sometimes, we might be tempted to treat the sangha as an ordinary social group. We might be tempted to form cliques within the sangha. We might be tempted to find friends and enemies and engage in power politics. The practice of sangha is to catch ourselves in the act, and to drop it.

We can practice sangha any time we interact with each other; but it is particularly important on apprentice retreats. That is when the interactions are most intense. It is also the time when the shared commitment to dropping our interpersonal baggage gives rise to magic. The conviviality at apprentice retreats can be extraordinary. It is not that retreats are a continuous party, but that we often find ourselves hugely enjoying the company of people we might cut ourselves off from otherwise.

Tantric crafts

The most frequent afternoon activity is Tantric craftwork.

Tantric practices often involve physical equipment. Musical instruments are perhaps the most important. Appreciation of the wondrous visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and fragrant qualities of the world is also central to Tantra. Tantric ritual objects are designed to please all the senses. Although it is possible to buy many of these objects, in the Aro tradition we prefer to make our own.

Craftwork is a religious practice for us; it has a devotional quality. Making your own ritual tools invests them with a depth of meaning that is not found in an object bought in a store. Also, frankly, we make nicer things than you can buy. Craftwork is a channel for artistic expression, which is inherent in Tantra.

On apprentice retreats, craftwork is a communal activity. We enjoy each others’ company while creating chöd drums, stringing the beads of sambhogakaya ornaments, or painting a thangka. The Aro sangha has accumulated a wealth of practical knowledge of craft techniques, which we enjoy sharing. The arrangement of completed practice items during retreats is an offering of beauty to everyone in attendance.

Physical exercises

During some afternoons, there are sessions for learning and practicing various types of physical exercise. These exercises come from the Aro gTér and other terma systems. They are designed to complement and support sitting meditation.

Aro sKu-mNyé is a series of 111 exercises that are part of Dzogchen long-dé. Long-dé is concerned with the experience of the “subtle” or “energetic” body. sKu-mNyé produces strange sensations in which one may find rigpa—non-dual awareness.

Gésar training is a system of physical and meditative exercises connected with Ling Gésar, the Tibetan enlightened warrior hero king. It involves movements similar to those of other martial arts, and can be practiced with weapons such as swords.

Horse riding is strongly encouraged by the Aro Lamas. It is valuable as a general practice of bodily awareness, and plays a role particularly within Gésar training. Apprentice retreats incorporate riding when feasible.

Aro teaches several systems of dance. Phurba dance and vulture dance are particularly practiced on retreats.

Special projects

The afternoons of some retreats are dedicated to special projects. Some are large craft projects that need many people working for many days. Others are particular rituals that are not held regularly.

This picture shows apprentices building a colossal phurba at Forchenstein, Austria, in 2003. A phurba is a ritual dagger, used to slay metaphorical demons, such as unkindness and narrow-mindedness. The picture shows the raising of the steel blades. The handle was then welded on above.

Typically phurbas are about five inches long. As far as we know, ours at Forchenstein is the largest in the world. This is only incidentally a point of humorous pride. It is mainly an expression of the tantric method of intensification: taking things as far as they can possibly go, and then some.

Thangkas are Tibetan religious paintings. Typically they are about two feet square. Much larger ones are sometimes also made—more than a hundred feet across in some cases. These may be made from fabric appliqué rather than painted. We have made a series of appliqué thangkas, about six by eight feet, as large as our retreat spaces fit.

This shows the construction of a retreat hut at Aro Khalding Tsang in Wales.

Similarly, this image shows students painting a room during the renovation of Aro Ga’dzong, our retreat center in Italy.

On some retreats, long-time students are ordained. A ceremony, a full day long, marks this transition. As one of many steps, students to be ordained construct tormas, elaborate ritual cakes, which are eaten by the sangha. Some of these have already been nibbled on.

This is a fire puja. Fire pujas have several functions in Tantric Buddhism. In one, clothes previously worn by the newly ordained are burned to symbolize the end of an old identity.

Empowerment

Most evenings there is an “empowerment” ceremony. (I have used a picture of a daytime ceremony—the colors are better.)

An empowerment—wang in Tibetan—is a transmission of enlightened mind from the lamas to students. It is one of the two most ancient and important ritual forms in Tantra. (The other is tsok, described below.) An empowerment is a formal introduction to a yidam. “Yidam” is often translated as “deity,” which is somewhat inaccurate. A better translation might be “style of enlightenment.” Becoming a yidam is one of the main practices of Buddhist Tantra. In an empowerment, the lama becomes a yidam, in order to introduce the yidam to students. This empowers the students to become the yidam in turn.

After the empowerment, we practice the yidam together. The instruction is to practice for about ten minutes longer than you want to. Apprentices quietly leave, individually, as they finish. Typically we go about an hour or two; in rare cases, a few people have continued the practice through the whole night.

Informal teaching and informal transmission

In addition to formal teaching, and the formal transmission of enlightened mind in empowerment, retreats involve informal teaching and informal transmission. Ultimately these are more important.

Informal teaching and transmission may occur at any time during the retreat: over lunch, during craft period, or on the way to the shower.

Informal teaching can be obvious or non-obvious. Obvious informal teaching occurs when the lama explicitly discusses Buddhism in an informal context. Non-obvious teaching involves no explicit mention of Buddhism. The way this works is subtle and difficult to understand. A great deal is learned simply by hanging out with the lama. Much of this cannot be expressed in words. It is not information; it concerns a way of being.

Informal transmission occurs when something the lama says or does, with no overt Buddhist content, sparks a moment of non-dual insight in the student. Empowerment is a Tantric form; informal transmission is characteristic of Dzogchen. Dzogchen is always more direct, and more subtle, than Tantra.

Informal teaching and informal transmission are easy to miss. They require that students be attentive to the possibility of receiving them, at all times. This involves the same open, alert awareness as formal meditation practice.

Openness to informal teaching and transmission develops the ability to find Buddhist inspiration and understanding in non-obvious places. Ultimately, the Dzogchen practitioner experiences everything as teaching Buddhism all the time.

Momos

At apprentice retreats, we have regular Western food, except on the last evening. That afternoon, we make momos, a favorite Tibetan food. Momos are dumplings, similar to Chinese dim sum. It takes half the sangha about three hours to make them.

Tsok and Celebration

Tsok and Celebration are superficially very different, but essentially the same. Both are joyful rituals of generosity, appreciation, and sharing.

As I mentioned earlier, tsok is one of the two oldest and most central Tantric rituals. It includes singing, dancing, a feast, and the reading of a liturgy (ritual text). Aro celebrates tsok in a quite traditional way. I’ve written a full page about it elsewhere.

Celebration is a non-traditional practice that expresses the same themes in a Western style. Outwardly, its form could be said crudely to be a “talent show.” Celebrants give offerings of the performing arts: music, poetry, drama, and dance. When not performing, celebrants offer their respectful attention and appreciation.

Celebration might appear to a non-Buddhist observer to be a purely secular party. However, it is a serious “practice of view.” As in tsok, the essence of the practice is to see all those present as fully enlightened Buddhas, and to comport ourselves as Buddhas to the best of our ability. This requires impeccable precision of attention. Because it involves finding transmission in a non-obvious context, Celebration is a training for informal transmission.

Formal evening dress is preferred for Celebration. Crisp attire is an offering of dignity to the assembly, and reflects crisp attention.

In Montana, Celebration is held cowboy-style.

Aro and the Nyingma mainstream

Aro is an “unusual” lineage within the Nyingma tradition. Does it contradict other Nyingma teachings? No; none.

I am confident about this. I have read more than a hundred books on Tibetan Buddhism. I have attended teachings and retreats with dozens of teachers from many lineages. I have been an Aro apprentice since 1997. If something in Aro were wrong, I expect I would have found it by now.

The doctrines of Aro are all mainstream. As far as I know, Aro does not have any type of practice that is not found elsewhere. (I discuss this in more detail on a later page.)

What is unusual about Aro is mainly not what it includes, but what it does not. Typically, Buddhist Tantra is presented as a system of ritual performance. Usually, the main ritual activity is chanting texts. In the Aro gTér, there is much less of this. Instead, it emphasizes silent meditation and non-ritual physical practices.

To the extent that what Aro includes is unusual, it is only in presenting the other yanas from the point of view of Dzogchen. This is orthodox in the Nyingma, but it is not common for it to be done so consistently. In fact, the more common presentation is the other way around. Dzogchen is more often presented from point of view of Mahayoga—that is, as a system of rituals and liturgy.

In fact, there are only two aspects of the Aro teachings that anyone has ever questioned. Those are the teachings on the nine bardos and on vajra romance. You can follow the links to find answers to those questions.

Emptiness in the Aro gTér

An awkward situation

I find emptiness—especially when understood as a good thing—the most distinctive and valuable teaching of Buddhism. It is also one of the least accessible, least obviously attractive, and least visible from outside the religion. (Every educated Westerner has some idea about Buddhist teaching on karma and compassion—but “emptiness”? No.)

Emptiness is not, I think, necessarily difficult to understand. Books about emptiness are remarkably scarce, though, considering how important it is. And those books are mostly extremely hard going. There is a tangled history behind this.

my nice non-stick spaghetti pot

The first explanations of emptiness were written by Nagarjuna. He was a genius, and his logic is quite straightforward; but it is hard to know what to think about his conclusions. One explanation is in terms of the “Four Extremes,” or fundamental wrong views. He argues that things—pots for instance—are

1. not existent;
2. not non-existent;
3. not both existent and non-existent; and
4. not neither existent nor non-existent.

But what is this supposed to mean? And why claim that my nice non-stick spaghetti pot is not existent?

Most Buddhist schools consider that Nagarjuna’s explanations of emptiness must definitely be correct and complete, because they were given to him by nagas: aquatic snake-gods. So scholars have been arguing about how to make sense of them for centuries. These arguments are sometimes brilliant, and fascinating if you are a philosophy geek; but they are extremely abstract, and have little obvious relevance to everyday experience.

Also, divine transmission may not seem as impressive as it once did. Nowadays we are not so interested in arguments from authority (“a god/saint/overgrown cobra said it, so it must be true.”) Being a Parselmouth does not make you seem infallible. Or, as Monty Python’s Dennis would put it,

“Listen—strange creatures lying in ponds distributing texts is no basis for a system of logic! Supreme spiritual power derives from the mandate of nonduality, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. You can’t expect to wield supreme spiritual power just ’cause some watery worm threw a sutra at you! I mean, if I went around sayin’ I was enlightened just because some moistened monster had lobbed a scripture at me, they’d put me away!”

Meanwhile, Buddhist practitioners have developed various other ways of making sense of emptiness, arising out of meditation practice and observing the texture of experience. These explanations do not clearly relate to the framework (“Madhyamaka”) set out by Nagarjuna and elaborated by numerous other philosophers since.

This is an awkward situation. Madhyamaka is the official teaching on emptiness, but is useless for most people. The informal explanations that students find relevant and helpful do not have a clear basis in the sacred texts. They are mainly taught orally, or are mentioned in passing in non-authoritative books of advice.

The Aro gTér explanations of emptiness

The Aro gTér is unusual in including, as formal teachings, explanations of emptiness that are not clearly derived from Madhyamaka. These teachings seem consistent with Madhyamaka—as it is interpreted in the Nyingma Tradition—but they go beyond it.

The Aro explanations also seem consistent with the informal, oral tradition found in other lineages that emphasize formless meditation. They will not seem surprising or alien to anyone who has practiced Zen, Formless Mahamudra, or in other Dzogchen lineages.

ten qualities of experience

The Aro gTér is unique, so far as I know, in organizing its explanations of form and emptiness around the five elements of Dzogchen (or equivalently the five Buddha Families of Tantra). Form is explained in terms of the five qualities of solidity, permanence, separateness, continuity, and definition. Emptiness is explained in terms of the seeming opposites—insubstantiality, transience, boundarilessness, discontinuity, and ambiguity. Although the Aro gTér sometimes speaks of existence and non-existence, its main explanations are in terms of these ten qualities of experience, instead.

The Aro gTér also describes a different set of Four Extremes: eternalism, nihilism, monism, and dualism. Again this is unique as far as I know [see update below]. Eternalism and nihilism relate closely to Nagarjuna’s first two Extremes (existence and non-existence). They are also explicitly two of the Four Extremes in a famous text by Padmasambhava, Explanations of the Variety of Philosophies.1

Monism and dualism are sometimes discussed in the Madhyamaka tradition as relating to eternalism and nihilism, but not as errors of comparable or independent importance. Monism is the belief that “all is One,” or “my true, deep self is mystically identified with the universe as a whole.” Dualism is the belief that “I am clearly distinct from everything else.”

These are common wrong ideas (whereas few people believe pots are “both existent and non-existent” or “neither existent, nor non-existent”). Monist thinking is typical of the New Age, but has recently “escaped” into our cultural thought soup, where it is wreaking havok on everyone’s ability to make sense of the relationship between self and the world. Mainstream Western religions are dualist, believing in a soul that is separate from everything else.

[Update: Jayarava has pointed out that the Four Extremes of eternalism, nihilism, monism, and dualism appear in the Pali Canon, in the Lokayatika Sutta. The Buddha, in conversation with a cosmologist, rejects these Four Extremes. It was surprising, but gratifying, to find precedent for the Aro view in a seemingly-unrelated scripture.]

celebrate form as the basis of compassion and appreciation

The Aro presentation is somewhat unusual in giving equal value to form and emptiness, and emphasizing their nonduality. The best-known interpretations of Madhyamaka are rooted in Sutrayana, which prioritizes emptiness over form. From point of view of Sutrayana, form is impure and contaminating, and should be renounced. Versions of Madhyamaka that are based in Tantra or Dzogchen celebrate form as the basis of compassion and appreciation. Such interpretations are typical of the Nyingma Tradition.

I have found the Aro presentation of form and emptiness, of their nonduality, and of the Four Extremes, hugely helpful in understanding everyday experience, meditation experiences, and formal teachings on emptiness such as Madhyamaka.

Currently, there is no Aro text specifically devoted to this subject. However, it is a main topic of Ngakpa Chögyam’s Spectrum of Ecstasy, among other works.

Meaningness, emptiness, and the Aro gTér

My Meaningness site works out practical consequences of the Four Extremes as I understand them from the Aro gTér. It is not actually an Aro presentation (I am not qualified to do that), or even a Buddhist one. It is meant to be useful to anyone, whether or not they are Buddhists, so I don’t use the word “emptiness,” which would be misleading. (And I don’t want to get into arguments there about whether my understanding of emptiness is correct—a favorite sport for Buddhist scholars.)

However, Buddhists may find much of interest there, reflecting at least the informal tradition of emptiness explanation.

• 1. The title is Man ngag lta ba'i phreng ba in Tibetan. The other two Extremes in this text are different from both Nagarjuna and the Aro gTér.

Ling Gésar Buddhist martial arts retreat

Imagine that an enemy has grabbed you, thrown you on the ground, pinned you on your back, wrapped your left arm tightly around your own neck, and you are struggling to escape as they use it to choke you unconscious.

Now imagine that your best friend has grabbed you, thrown you on the ground, pinned you on your back, wrapped your left arm tightly around your own neck, you are struggling to escape as they use it to choke you unconscious—and you are having wicked big fun.

Hold that thought.

Ling Gésar retreat

I recently attended the first ever public Ling Gésar Tibetan Buddhist martial arts retreat. Ling Gésar was a heroic Buddhist warrior-king; he is the subject of numerous epic poems and also religious termas.

This retreat was based on a Gésar terma that is closely connected with the Aro gTér. This terma is almost entirely Dzogchen long-dé. It consists of methods of training to be a Buddhist warrior, including Gar-tak, a system of martial arts.

The week-long retreat presented a huge variety of material, most of it quite unlike anything previously revealed publicly in any Tibetan Buddhist tradition. To grasp it fully, you’d need to be both an accomplished martial artist and an accomplished Dzogchen meditator; and I am neither. This page is based on my novice experience and understanding; others might give quite different accounts.

What I hope to communicate is that

• Some people will find this seriously cool.
• It will not be a good fit for most other people (although they might find it interesting to read about).
• This is indeed Buddhism—although it might sound like the opposite at first.

Dzogchen long-dé

Long-dé is the section of Dzogchen concerned with the “subtle body”—experiences of “energy” or indescribable sensations. Mind, energy, and the physical body are linked so that each affects the others.

Many systems—Buddhist and others—use this linkage to affect the mind through energy. According to Tibetan Buddhism, the mind “rides” the energy like a horse. A skilled rider can direct energy to take mind where the rider wants to go. In Buddhism, that would generally be to rigpa—transient enlightenment. This “energy work” is the “completion phase” of Tantric Buddhism; it is the necessary last step before enlightenment.

Of course, if you are unskilled, your energy takes you somewhere else—often into depression or agitation. At the crudest level, everyone understands this, from experience with coffee, for instance.

The problem with the subtle body is that it is usually too subtle. Under most circumstances, the qualities of energy that are useful to develop are so slight that they go unnoticed.

For this reason, it is easy to get away with saying ridiculous things about the subtle body. The New Age is full of nonsense about energy, maybe involving flower essences and angelic guides.

To learn to ride the subtle body, you have to intensify the energy so it is no longer subtle and the relevant sensations are unmistakable. Different systems have many methods for this. They use the mind or the body, or both, to affect energy; then energy is used in turn to affect mind or body.

Completion phase Tantra uses highly technical methods to gradually build up energy in specific complex patterns; this delicate construction takes many years.

Dzogchen long-dé works instead with whatever form of energy arises spontaneously. Many methods shake the hell out of the subtle body, rapidly producing intense, strange, unpredictable sensations.

Whereas in Tantra the meditation instructions provide a detailed energetic circuit diagram, the long-dé instructions are mainly descriptions of sensations you might experience at some time if your energy happens to manifest in that way. Then the practice is to be open to recognizing those experiences whenever they do. Adding violent energy to the system makes it more likely that unusual experiences will occur.

The Ling Gésar system incorporates diverse methods that can produce powerful energetic effects almost instantaneously. One of these is sPrul 'khor—a vigorous system of Tibetan yoga, illustrated above.

The violent physicality of combat, in martial arts practice, can also produce intense sensations—some unlikely to be felt elsewhere. Most may be meaningless and useless; but others are valuable for meditation or fighting or both. The retreat teachers spent a couple of hours each day pointing these out.

And this is Buddhism?

It might seem that violence is inherently anti-Buddhist. I’ll say more about that below. Let’s set that aside for a moment, and imagine that martial arts aren’t opposed to Buddhism.

Still, why make martial arts the main topic of a Buddhist retreat? Is there any connection? Many connections were made over the week. Let me just point out two—ones that may be easy to understand experientially, even if you have no martial arts experience.

When you have been fighting for sixty seconds—which can seem much longer—you stop thinking. There is no room for it. This can sometimes happen during any form of intense exertion; blood is routed out of your brain and into your muscles. But there is more to it in fighting. When someone is trying as hard as they can to put you in a “submission position” in which they could kill or cripple you, and there would be nothing you could do about it, your body automatically goes into “fight or flight” mode. A burst of adrenalin puts your brain into an instinctual state that stops thought.

A no-thought state is the goal of many Buddhist meditation practices. Typically you’d need at least an hour a day of practice, for many months, perhaps several years, to get there. You can get to that point in your first sixty seconds of martial arts sparring. Then you can access no-thought as often and for as long as you like, limited only by anaerobic exercise capacity.

Another goal of Buddhist meditation is to break down the experience of a distinction between self and other. It might seem that combat, being adversarial, would heighten that distinction. A common experience, however, is the opposite. When locked in struggle, “me” and “my opponent” may disappear. There is just the intense sensation of bodies straining against each other and the poetry of motion, without any “doer” involved.

Of course, these non-thought and no-self experiences do not automatically propel you along the Buddhist path. If they did, UFC champions would all be Buddhas. These are Buddhist methods only in a Buddhist context, in which you have sufficient experience of meditation, and sufficient understanding of Buddhist view, to recognize their significance as they occur.

This is characteristic of Dzogchen. Its fundamental meditation practice is not very different from that of other forms of Buddhism. Its distinctive additional methods accelerate the basic meditation, taking you immediately to the experience of emptiness or rigpa. But these methods only work if you have a solid base of silent sitting meditation.

So what about aggression?

Buddhism of all sorts is opposed to aggression: destroying things because you don’t like them. Many forms of Buddhism see violence as inherently aggressive and condemn it. I have four things to say about this: violence is not necessarily aggressive; aggression is workable; you cannot effectively oppose aggression without experiencing it in yourself; and destruction is sometimes ethically necessary.

Combative conviviality

In martial arts training, students must be friendly; they must trust and respect each other, and see each other as “on the same side,” even when fighting a match. If you thought your sparring partner might deliberately cause you a serious injury, the dynamic would be entirely different. That is a situation few sane people would choose, and in which it would be difficult to learn anything.

During this retreat, the teachers deliberately created an atmosphere they called “combative conviviality.” Personally I found this the most remarkable aspect of the whole experience.

Violence is not necessarily aggressive. A martial arts match is a form of enjoyable play. The combatants, although doing their utmost to violently dominate and subdue each other, are also working hard to care for each other, to prevent real harm. Anger is unhelpful and out of place here. Affection is not.

Everything is workable

Sutric Buddhism sees aggression as entirely unworkable. Sutra is the path of renunciation. A Sutric Buddhist renounces aggression in all forms, and avoids any situation that might give rise to conflict.

Tantric Buddhism is the path of transformation. Tantra puts strong emotions, whatever they may be, to work. Its slogan is that “everything is workable.” Aggression is not separate from enlightenment—although it is a distorted, mistaken form. Tantra contains methods that separate the intense emotional energy of aggression from the intention to destroy. That energy can be redirected toward other goals, such as religious realization.

Martial arts sparring is one way to transform your aggressive impulses, putting them to use for physical fitness, enjoyable play, and (in the Gésar Gar-tak system) religious practice.

Violence is not somewhere else

Violent conflict is a fact of human nature. We can wish it did not exist; we can try to prevent it. What we cannot do is wish it out of existence. We also should not pretend that it is “somewhere else”—that we have no capacity for violence, and only bad people do.

To effectively oppose conflict, we need to understand it. We cannot fully understand it without experiencing and accepting it in ourselves. We may be able to choose never to be violent—but most people will become violent when put under sufficient pressure. We can train our ability to resist violent impulses by repeatedly experiencing them in a safe environment, where they do no harm.

I have written much more about this in “We are all monsters” and “Eating the shadow.”

Necessary destruction

the first principle:
defense of others

Although some systems of Buddhist ethics condemn violence absolutely, many recognize that there are times when it is required. There are even times when it is ethically necessary to kill people—to prevent a worse catastrophe. According to one Buddhist Sutra, the Buddha (in a previous life) hacked a psychopath to death with an axe, as the only way of preventing his murdering five hundred other people. My page on “Buddhists who kill” explains this in detail.

As a Buddhist practice, Gésar Gar-tak martial art is not a system of “self-defense.” Its first principle is the defense of others.

If you take this ethical imperative seriously, you might wish to learn something about how to subdue dangerous people with minimal harm, or even how to kill, should that be necessary. A practical system of martial arts could be one approach to that.

Essentialized martial arts

So far this has been about the Gésar terma as Buddhism. Now I will say something about its implications for the martial arts.

There are many interesting analogies between the historical and social dynamics of Buddhist lineages and martial arts lineages. Actually, the two are often the same; most Asian martial arts lineages have Buddhist roots, and many retain ties to particular Buddhist school. Famously, for instance, Kung Fu is centered on the Shaolin Zen monastery.

Martial arts and Buddhism both tend to gradually accumulate elegant complexity. Over time, martial arts lineages seem to lose track of their original purpose of efficiently controlling, disabling, or killing enemies. They evolve into elaborate dance styles. These can be appreciated aesthetically as art, but no longer function as martial arts.

Mixed martial arts tournaments pit different systems against each other. They show what actually works in combat. The complicated, elegant stuff doesn’t.

Buddhism—especially Tantra—also tends to produce ever-more-elaborate rituals and philosophies and meditation methods. These are extraordinary as art works. They remind me of Rococo cathedrals, in which the luxuriant decorations on the statues adorning the architectural ornaments are enhanced with convoluted floral embellishments. However, the original goal of efficiently attaining enlightenment often seems to get lost.

Dzogchen—particularly relative to Tantra—cuts through all these curlicues. It is simple, direct, and swift. It concentrates on the essential principles and functions of Buddhist practice, heading straight for the goal and ignoring attractive diversions.

Gésar Gar-tak similarly aims straight at the heart of combat. It concentrates on essential principles, such as the relationship between striking and grappling.

The Gésar teachers are developing a system of martial arts training that drops beginners directly into full-contact sparring, and instructs them immediately in the essential skills needed to win matches. (By contrast, most Asian martial art training methods spend a couple of years teaching elaborate stylized forms before sparring begins; and may entirely omit fundamental aspects of combat skills.)

As long-dé, Gar-tak’s foundation is the various ways fighting can feel, rather than particular physical skills such as stances, kicks, throws, or pins. The felt sense of how the fight is going and where it can be guided usually takes a decade of traditional training to develop, because it is not explicitly taught. Gar-tak training transmits this understanding from the beginning.

The Gésar terma also connects the experience of combat with religious principles from the beginning. Most martial arts developed in a religious context, but in most cases their spiritual aspects are not taught to beginners.

Modern fighting systems may also accelerate progress through immersion. However, like some stripped-down Western Buddhist approaches, they risk throwing the baby of traditional transmission methods out with the bathwater of excessive elaboration. Generally they omit spiritual principles altogether. The Gar-tak approach incorporates both the traditional forms and principles, and the immediate feedback of playful (yet deadly serious) tactility.

Not for everyone

The Ling Gésar terma overall is available to everyone. It includes motionless meditation and physical exercises that are quite gentle. It contains approaches that are non-combative, in which fighting plays no part.

On the other hand, martial art sparring will not be a good fit for most Buddhists. It requires both physical fitness and mental toughness.

Pain, numerous bruises, and total exhaustion are guaranteed. Minor injuries—from sprains to small bones breaking—are not uncommon. Serious injury or death are improbable, but not impossible.

Aro retreats can be quite emotionally intense; this went beyond that. I think most participants were faced at times with fear, pain, confusion, unexpected anger, and the groundlessness of “what on earth am I doing here?” This would not be a good environment for the emotionally fragile. On this occasion, everyone managed their feelings competently, and carried themselves well. An atmosphere of enthusiasm, precision, and respect was maintained throughout.

Now is the time

If this Gésar Gar-tak retreat sounds attractive, I recommend that you go to the next one. Do not wait. The Gésar terma is unfolding now for the first time. The teaching methods are semi-formed; in flux. Each of the next several retreats is likely to be unique. Being part of this from near the beginning is exciting in a way that may not be accessible a couple of years from now. The training method is also progressive, and it may be difficult to catch up with the initial group of students if you do not get started soon.

Ngak’phang

Tantric ordination

For more than a thousand years, there have been two systems of ordination in Tibetan Buddhism. (“Ordination” is the formal recognition by a religious institution that an individual has made a permanent and unbounded commitment to serving the religion, its members, and the institution.) The familiar system is the “monastic” ordination of monks and nuns. These are referred to as the “Red Sangha,” from the color of their robes. This system primarily supports the practice of Sutrayana. Less familiar is the “White Sangha,” which primarily supports the practice of Tantrayana. It is called the gö-kar-chang-lo’i-dé, which means “the system of white skirts and long hair.” Again this refers to the robes worn by its members.

These two systems were once regarded as equal. One would enter one system of ordination or the other, according to whether one practiced Sutra or Tantra. One might also begin as a monk or nun and move into Tantric practice later—with a switch in ordination. However, in recent centuries, there has been increasing political pressure on the White Sangha. (This is due to unpleasant Tibetan politics that I won’t go into.) Not many Tibetans enter the White Sangha now. Some that do stay “in the closet,” because there can be retaliation if they wear the robes publicly. So until recently, this ordination was unknown in the West.

Fraud

Ngak’chang Rinpoche was instructed by Düdjom Rinpoche to establish the White Sangha in the West. When Ngak’chang Rinpoche started teaching in a white skirt, in the late 1970s, almost no one in Britain had ever seen or heard of such a thing. Some thought that he had made the whole thing up—and attacked him as fake.

In the late 1990s, the Aro Encyclopædia posted a large number of photographs of Tibetan Lamas in white skirts. This showed that the suspicion that Rinpoche had invented the whole thing was mistaken.

The critics then changed their accusation to “this is just a ritual outfit worn by some monks when performing some Tantric practices. There is no such thing as a separate Tantric ordination. He just made that up.” However, in the past decade, several ethnically Tibetan Ngakpa Lamas have explained the system in the West, so it is no longer possible to doubt its existence. Some Tibetans now ordain Westerners into the White Sangha. The “no such thing as a separate Tantric ordination” claim is also clearly wrong and has been abandoned.

Ngak’phang

A male member of the White Sangha is called a Ngakpa; a female member is called a Ngakma or Ngakmo. “Ngak” is Tibetan for “mantra.” -Pa is a male suffix and -ma and -mo are female suffixes.

In Tibet, whereas Ngakpas were uncommon, Ngakmas (or Ngakmos) in most places were unknown. (Tibet has a less patriarchal culture than most, but the usual kinds of prejudice are still present.) For this reason, members of the White Sangha were all usually referred to simply as “Ngakpas.”

Gyaltsen Rinpoche wrote an introduction to Ngak’chang Rinpoche’s 1995 book Wearing the Body of Visions. He described Ngak’chang Rinpoche as “an authentic upholder of the ngakphang tradition of the Nyingma.” Ngak’chang Rinpoche, who is not a Tibetan language scholar, did not recognize the word “ngakphang.” Gyaltsen Rinpoche told him it referred to the White Sangha. Ngak’chang Rinpoche subsequently asked Lama Tharchin Rinpoche about it. Lama Tharchin thought the word was rare and archaic. Ngak’chang Rinpoche translated it as “mantra hurling” because ’phangs (pronounced “phang”) is “to throw or shoot” in the dictionary.

The Aro lineage historically emphasizes women practitioners, and the gender ratio is about 50/50 currently. So Ngak’chang Rinpoche adopted “ngak’phang” as a short, gender-neutral word to refer to “Ngakpas and Ngakmas.”

There is an urban legend that ngak’phang is a bad word. This appears to be based solely on two 1997 emails from Christopher Fynn. This was once widely accepted without anyone bothering to check whether it is true.

Understanding his emails requires tedious explanations of Tibetan spelling and grammar. You may wish to skip ahead over the rest of this section.

Tibetan is not pronounced as it is spelled. Many letters are silent, or change their sound according to context. Tibetan has its own alphabet, but can be written in the Western alphabet. That can be done in either of two ways. You can capture the pronunciation, or the Tibetan spelling. For example, the spelling “tulku” captures the way the word is pronounced. As spelled, it is sprul sku.

Gyaltsen Rinpoche wrote his introduction in English. He wrote “ngakphang,” which is definitely a phonetic spelling. The Tibetan spelling would have to be two words, of which the first is certainly sngags, pronounced ngak, meaning mantra. It is impossible to be certain from the phonetic spelling what the second word would be. There are three words that are pronounced “phang”: phangs, ’phang, and ’phangs. (The apostrophe represents a silent Tibetan letter, and the s at the end is also silent. There is no word spelled phang, although dictionaries note that it is a common misspelling of the others.)

In his first email, Mr. Fynn wrote:

In Tibetan Ngakphang (sngags phangs) in fact means "Mantra looser" or one who throws away or forsakes mantras - which would usually be interpreted as a samaya breaker.

He jumped to the conclusion that the second word was phangs. This is probably mistaken.

Further, phangs does not appear to mean “throw away” or “forsake.” I consulted three dictionaries: the Illuminator, Rangjung Yeshe, and Sarat Chandra Das. I did not find any meaning like that. Phangs means “a sharp subjective feeling of loss.” sNgags phangs would mean “the feeling of being upset at having lost mantra.” Phangs is an emotion provoked by something that has happened to you; it does not refer to a deliberate action. The idea that sngags phangs could be interpreted as “samaya breaker” seems far-fetched.

When it was pointed out to Mr. Fynn that the word is actually the unrelated ’phangs, he backpedaled in a second email:

Yes, 'phangs is the _future_ root of 'phen which is one of the words for shoot or throw.

(This was mistaken; 'phangs is the past tense. The future is 'phang, without an s.) He then suggested:

Wouldn't "ngags 'phen mkhan" be the way to write "mantra shooter"?

His point was that 'phangs is a verb, so sngags 'phangs is a sentence: “[someone] shot mantra.” This could be converted into a noun phrase by adding the “nominalizing particle” mkhan: sngags 'phangs mkhan would be “someone who has shot mantra.” ('Phen is the present tense.) A fair point—if we were attempting to translate “mantra shooter” into Tibetan. However, Ngak’chang Rinpoche’s translation from the Tibetan was “mantra hurling,” not “mantra hurler.” The nominalizing particle in that case would be pa, not mkhan.

This is beside the point, however. No one has found examples of either sngags ’phangs or sngags phangs being used in a Tibetan sentence. Without surrounding Tibetan syntax, we cannot use grammar as a clue to meaning. All we have is a pair of Tibetan words used in an English sentence. It is common when embedding short Tibetan phrases in English to omit the Tibetan syntactic particles. English grammar conveys the syntactic role of the Tibetan words, rather than Tibetan particles. In “the ngakphang tradition,” it is clear by English grammar that “ngakphang” is acting as a nominal, so there is no need for a nominalizing particle such as pa or mkhan. (Further, nominalizing particles, particularly pa, are often omitted even in Tibetan sentences, when they can be inferred from context.)

Mr. Fynn concluded:

Maybe your Tibetan is better than mine but I think most Tibetans would understand it the way I did - though the word "ngags 'phangs" is not in any dictionary.

I do not see any support for this conclusion. However, I too am not fluent in Tibetan. I hope that experts will read the analysis above carefully and point out any errors I may have made.

Why would Gyaltsen Rinpoche have told Ngak’chang Rinpoche that “ngak’phang” refers to the White Sangha if it actually meant “throw away mantra”? Mr. Fynn suggests:

Are you quite sure that some Tibetan lama wasn't pulling your teacher's leg when he gave this name? (Some of them are fond of this kind of thing.) Alak Zenkar Rinpoche (the author of the tshig mdzod chen mo and a Nyingma lama) certainly found this term highly amusing.

Unfortunately we don’t know the context in which Mr. Fynn presented the term to Alak Zenkar Rinpoche. Perhaps it went like this:

Mr. Fynn: Rinpoche, have you ever heard the term “ngak’phang”?

Alak Zenkar Rinpoche: No—where did you get it?

Mr. Fynn: There’s this crazy white guy who claims to be part of the “ngak’phang tradition,” which he says means “mantra thrower.” But I think he is a samaya breaker, so maybe it really means “throws away mantra!”

Rinpoche: Hah hah! Highly amusing!

That is a good joke—but laughing at it is not exactly a statement of professional opinion.

So what did ngak’phang mean?

It seems there are three possibilities:

Possibility 1: Lama Tharchin Rinpoche was right: it was an archaic term for the White Sangha. It was sufficiently rare that it did not make it into dictionaries. (I see no strong reason to doubt this.)

Possibility 2: Gyaltsen Rinpoche invented the term, with good intentions. It had no definite meaning before. (This also seems quite likely.)

Possibility 3: “Ngak’phang” somehow did mean “throw away mantra.” Gyaltsen Rinpoche knew this and was making fun of Ngak’chang Rinpoche. (After reading his introduction, it seems unlikely to me that he would be malicious. I also think this meaning is unlikely based on the linguistic analysis above.)

None of these scenarios seem to reflect badly on Ngak’chang Rinpoche. If anyone were to look bad, it would seem to be Gyaltsen Rinpoche—another reason it is an unlikely interpretation.

Ngak’phang today

A Google search shows that the word ngak’phang (also spelled ngakphang) is now quite widely used in the West. Many Sanghas with no connection to Aro use it, because it is useful.

It also is used on the official web site of the Drikung Kagyüd lineage. (This web site is impeccably Tibetan, with no white Lamas to be seen.) To quote: “Ongtrül Rinpoche [is] a ngak'phang Lama who is the emanation of Khyéchung Lotsa.” This might be evidence that “ngak’phang” is indeed an ancient Tibetan term. It might also be evidence that some Tibetans know a good new word when they see one, and have the flexibility to adopt it.

Words do not have inherent, eternal, “real” meanings. Meanings are established by use, not by God. They differ across time and space. Whatever “ngak’phang” may have once meant in Tibet (if anything), it means “Ngakpa or Ngakma” in the West in 2008.

How many bardos?

Kyabjé Chhi’med Rig’dzin Rinpoche, the late Lama of Ngak’chang Rinpoche, said “if there are nine bardos then Padmasambhava must be stupid as he only knew six of them.” This has been taken as a criticism of the Aro gTér, which describes nine bardos.

This might seem to be an insignificant technical point. However, it is important because it is the only case (as far as I know) in which anyone has suggested that the Aro gTér contradicts a generally-accepted Nyingma teaching.

So—which is it? Six bardos or nine?

But first—what is a bardo? Who is Padmasambhava? How do we know there are six of them?

“Bardo” literally means “in-between state.” Their best-known explanation is in the Bardo Thödröl. That book is often called “The Tibetan Book of the Dead” in English, although that doesn’t translate the title at all. It is called that because the bardo teachings discuss the “in-between state” that comes between one life and the next. The Bardo Thödröl is a térma (“revelation”) that is attributed to Padmasambhava, the Second Buddha who established Vajrayana in Tibet.

that’s a contradiction, isn’t it?

The Bardo Thödröl describes six bardos. The Aro gTér describes nine. That’s a contradiction, isn’t it?

Although the Bardo Thödröl is the most widely known térma to describe bardos, there are many other termas that do so. Among these, there are systems of three, four, and five bardos. There is also a system of six bardos that are quite different from those named in the Bardo Thödröl. (You can read about these in David Germano’s scholarly history of the subject.) All these térmas are universally accepted as canonical Nyingma scriptures.

So, evidently, there is no contradiction between different systems of bardos after all. There is no reason to doubt the Aro gTér on this basis.

But, how can it be that there is not a contradiction? And why would Chhi’med Rig’dzin Rinpoche say what he is reported to have, if not to suggest a flaw in the Aro gTér?

The answer to the first question is valuable, because it shows how Buddhism is misunderstood when one fails to understand the relationship between truth and methods. The classification of bardos is not a matter of truth. Bardos are not objectively existing, well-defined entities with crisp boundaries.

An analogy might be helpful. We can divide up the twenty-four hour daily cycle in several ways. There is day, and there is night. That is a two-fold division. Within the day, we could distinguish a.m. and p.m., yielding a three-fold division. Or we could speak of morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Or morning, noontime, afternoon, evening, and night. We could add dawn and dusk. And so on.

there is no truth as to how long dusk lasts

None of these descriptions is “the correct one.” They do not conflict. We can certainly tell noon from midnight, and it would certainly be wrong to say that noon was part of the night. But there is no objective standard for when late afternoon turns into early evening. There is no truth of the matter as to whether “noontime” is “really” part of the day, or how long dusk lasts. All these categories may be useful as ways of talking in certain situations. They are methods for describing periods of time that are relatively stable in nature. When we speak of “morning,” we mean a period during which things are about the same, as far as light and temperature go.

“Bardo” might be better translated “mode of awareness.” A bardo is a period during which our awareness is about the same. There is a bardo of waking, and a bardo of dreams. Awareness generally has a different character in dreams than while waking. There is the bardo of meditation, during which awareness again has a different flavor.

Historically, as described by Germano, later térma generally had successively greater numbers of bardos, derived by sub-dividing ones described earlier. Just as “day” can be divided into morning and afternoon, awareness in “life” (as opposed to between-lives awareness) can be divided into waking and dreaming. Waking can be further divided into distraction and meditation. The bardo between lives is also subdivided into less-familiar modes of awareness.

The Aro gTér system of nine bardos subdivides some of those found in the Bardo Thödröl system. It draws additional distinctions, pointing our attention to other ways in which our awareness may vary.

The bardo teachings are part of Dzogchen. The central aim of Dzogchen is to recognize rigpa: non-dual awareness, or enlightenment-in-the-moment. According to Dzogchen, we always experience rigpa, but fail to recognize it.

there is only one bardo: rigpa

The whole point of the bardo teachings is to discover that there is, in a sense, only one bardo: rigpa. Rigpa is always our true mode of awareness. Whether we are awake or asleep, alive or dead, mopping or meditating, rigpa is always the same. The aim of bardo practice is to recognize this sameness.

Paradoxically, we do this by recognizing difference. In reality, every moment is a distinct bardo. Our awareness is subtly different in each instant.

The value of listing bardos is in pointing out that our mode of awareness varies—because it is only when we can experience the variation that we discover what is the same underneath the differences.

So—how many bardos? One. Three. Six. Nine. Two hundred and forty-seven. A billion. Infinitely many.

All these are correct, as Chhi’med Rig’dzin Rinpoche of course knew. So why did he say “if there are nine bardos then Padmasambhava must be stupid”?

I wasn’t there. However, I can guess:

He was making a joke! He may have been affectionately teasing Ngak’chang Rinpoche. But mostly it’s funny because it points out the irresolvable tension between the theoretical absurdity of naming any definite set of bardos and the practical value in doing so.

The heart of sun and moon

The term “vajra romance” is not a direct translation of a Tibetan phrase. This might give the impression that the Aro teachings on vajra romance are a dubious new idea.

Vajra romance is, in fact, taught in every Tibetan Buddhist lineage. It is one of the fundamental principles of Tantra. It played a particularly central role in the early days of Tantra in India. It was the main practice of Mahasiddhas such as Saraha and Dombipa, who founded the principal Tantric lineages. It was the primary practice of various Tibetan Mahasiddhas, notably the Sixth Dala’i Lama and Jetsunma Sera Khandro Rinpoche. It has also been the primary practice of innumerable lesser-known Indians and Tibetans.

In Tantra, vajra romance is part of the two-person practice called karma mudra. Historically karma mudra was regarded as essential to attaining Buddhahood (although various traditions interpret this in different ways). Karma mudra has two aspects. First, one regards one’s lover as a fully enlightened Buddha. Second, while in sexual union, the couple engages in highly technical exercises that manipulate the psychophysical energy of the “subtle body.”

The first aspect is “vajra romance.” Vajra romance is nothing more nor less than the practice of regarding one’s lover as enlightened.

One of the Fourteen Root Vows—the fundamental prerequisites to Tantra—is “never to denigrate women.” This is a statement of the principle of vajra romance from a male perspective. The detailed explanation of why one should not denigrate women depends on the lineage, but essentially it relates to the first aspect of karma mudra: vajra romance. If a man regards women as inherently defective in any way, karma mudra is impossible.

The main unusual feature of the Aro gTér is that it presents all Buddhist teachings from point of view of Dzogchen. Karma mudra is usually presented as Tantric practice. The Aro teachings on vajra romance describe the same material as Dzogchen practice.

Dzogchen men-ngak-dé is largely concerned with practices of “viewing as.” Aro teaches “viewing one’s lover as a Buddha” in men-ngak-dé style.

Dzogchen long-dé is largely concerned with practices of the energies of the subtle body. The Tantric karmamudra practices belong to Anuyoga, in which these energies are deliberately manipulated according to intricate set patterns. Long-dé instead teaches one to experience the sensations resulting from the energies as they naturally arise, without specifically directing them. The Aro teachings discuss the energetic interactions of lovers in long-dé style. The word “romance” is used in English because these interactions suffuse the entire relationship—whereas the Tantric teachings on karmamudra focus more narrowly on the sexual act itself.

It is common when writing in English about Tibetan Buddhism to use terminology that does not directly correspond to Tibetan terms. “Tibetan Buddhism” is itself an example. The closest Tibetan equivalent might be dorje thegpa, “Vajrayana.” In English that would be “The Thunderbolt Vehicle.” Not only is “Tibetan Buddhism” not a direct translation, it doesn’t even cover the same territory, because “Tibetan Buddhism” includes Sutrayana. For Tibetans, “Tibetan Buddhism” is simply chö, Dharma—but that does not convey the sense in which it differs from other forms of Buddhism. Böd kyi chö would be a direct translation of “Tibetan Dharma,” but I have never encountered it, and it does not appear in my dictionary.

Aro tsok and the Three Displays

Tsok’khorlo

Tsok is probably the most important Vajrayana ritual practice. (It is also called “feast practice,” tsog, tshogs khor lo, puja, ganapuja, ganachakra, or variants of these.)

Tsok literally means “community.” The ritual expresses the sacred bond among members of the sangha. The generosity of this bond is then extended to everyone and everything, everywhere. Within tsok, we view ourselves, each other, and all beings as Buddhas. We view all things as infinitely sacred—even those that are conventionally impure or disgusting. This vision is the essential practice of inner tantra—made especially explicit in tsok.

The details of tsok vary from lineage to lineage. Typically it includes singing, dancing, a feast, the reading of a liturgy (ritual text), mantra recitation, the creation of a physical and visualized mandala, and offerings.

The Aro tsok is our lineage’s most elaborate ritual. It includes all the elements I’ve listed above. The liturgy is based on the three kayas: the modes of existence of Buddhas. The dharmakaya is the mode of enlightened potential. The sambhogakaya is the mode of visionary energy. The nirmanakaya is the mode of flesh and blood, physical existence. The Aro tsok liturgy is a poetically inspiring explanation of ways we can “live the view” and manifest the three kayas in reality.

The Three Displays

In Tibetan paintings, Buddhas are shown in different dress according to the kaya they represent. These are called the “Three Displays.” Dharmakaya Buddhas (such as Kuntuzangpo and Kuntuzangmo) are shown entirely naked. This expresses the beautiful simplicity of emptiness, unadorned with characteristics. Nirmanakaya Buddhas (such as Padmasambhava) are shown clad in resplendent garments. This expresses the glorious intricacy of form and the physical world. Sambhogakaya Buddhas (such as Vajrayogini) are shown wearing “tantric ornaments.” These are mainly strings of beads, worn without clothes. They express the fact that sambhogakaya is the dynamic communication between emptiness and form, and shares the nature of each.

Practicing the Displays

In the picture at the top of this page, Yeshe Tsogyel is shown wearing sambhogakaya ornaments. She is universally regarded by Tibetans as a nirmanakaya Buddha, but is often shown in sambhogakaya form. This expresses the fact that she practiced and accomplished tantra by visualizing herself as a sambhogakaya Buddha.

Visualizing oneself as a Buddha is one of the most important practices of Buddhist tantra. Physical aids are helpful. In many rituals, Tibetans dress as the Buddha they visualize. They dance in a style that enacts the enlightened nature of that Buddha. This is commonly misunderstood as a “colorful folk festival.” There is an inner dimension to the dance, however. Wearing the dress of the Buddha helps one discover that one is, in fact, not different from a Buddha. From the perspective of Vajrayana, we are all beginninglessly enlightened.

In modern public performances, sambhogakaya ornaments are always worn over clothing. Naked bodies are generally seen as shameful, disgusting, and impure in Tibetan culture. In India, where Vajrayana originated, this is not true. Even today, sadhus who wander naked through busy city streets are granted great respect.

Nakedness is also less of a problem in the West. In the Aro tradition, we sometimes find it useful, when practicing privately, to adopt the dress of dharmakaya and sambhogakaya Buddhas as they appear in paintings—without clothes.

Participants may optionally adopt sambhogakaya or dharmakaya appearance when tsok and the empowerment ritual are practiced within the close community of apprentices, on apprentice-only retreats. In tsok, we view everything in the universe as pure and sacred—and that includes our bodies. We view each other as nirmanakaya, sambhogakaya, or dharmakaya Buddhas, according to the way we are each dressed.

Sambhogakaya and dharmakaya displays can be difficult for some new apprentices. The West is not free from taboos. Some students are initially uncomfortable due to worries about how their bodies will be perceived by others. However, the practice of tsok is to view everyone present as a Buddha. There is no judgment about anyone being unattractive. The ceremony is unlikely to be found erotic by anyone. It is respectful, not lewd; joyful, but not wild.

For some apprentices, this experience has profoundly changed their relationships with their own bodies. Acceptance in tsok has healed body-image fears, and has revealed a courage and self-confidence that students did not know they were capable of.

Is this, like, some California New Age thing, or what??

In ancient times, tsok was normally practiced unclothed. It also appears that ritual sexual intercourse was originally part of the practice. That is not true of the Aro tsok (and never will be).

About a thousand years ago, Buddhist tantra became “closeted” in Tibet, to make it socially acceptable. Since then, unclothed practice has been mainly hidden. As far as I know, Aro is the only lineage that is currently “out of the closet” about this. However, I know of ethnically Tibetan lamas who quietly practice tsok in this style today.

I have found two mentions of this in the open literature. This first is in this discussion of the tantric root vows. The thirteenth vow concerns tsok, and here Kunzig Shamar Rinpoche mentions “dancing nakedly” as something that one should not hesitate to do.

The second mention concerns Khenpo Gangshar (also spelled Kangshar). He was a famous scholar and widely respected orthodox lama. Then, in 1957, he foresaw the disaster of 1959 Chinese invasion. He declared that this meant that the business-as-usual attitude of institutional Buddhism had to be replaced with urgent meditation practice—by everyone. There was no time left for elaborate rituals, for tantric ngöndro, or indeed for anything other than direct realization of the essence of Buddhism. He actively broke down the traditional barriers between laypeople and monastics, between men and women, and between the various sects. He taught Dzogchen—the ultimate practice of Tibetan Buddhism—openly, to everyone. And he taught tantra “literally,” as it was by the Indian mahasiddhas, rather than in the highly indirect, sanitized form common in monasteries.

Here’s the quote:

Khenpo Kangshar was there, giving his disciples a direct introduction to the nature of mind . . . During these teachings, the master suggested that the students remove their garments. Everyone except Dezhung Rinpoche and one senior lama of the karma Kagyü tradition, the Sangyay Nyenpa Trulku (the brother of Dilgo Khyentse), did so. The master had at first turned to Dezhung Rinpoche and politely suggested “If you wouldn’t mind just removing your robes . . . ” Dezhung Rinpoche removed his upper shirt and sat waiting, and this was enough for Khenpo Kangshar. Later Dezhung Rinpoche said, “If he had given me a further direct command, of course I would have obeyed.” Dezhung Rinpoche had studied the Guhyagarbha Tantra under Khenpo Kangshar the previous year and viewed him as the Buddha. He could not disobey his order. (A Saint in Seattle, page 214.)

“Direct introduction to the nature of mind” is the core teaching of Dzogchen. “The nature of mind” is enlightenment, which is often referred to as “naked mind” in Dzogchen. Freedom from moralistic prohibitions against nakedness is a symbol of the ultimate freedom of enlightenment.

Considerably more is known about Khenpo Gangshar’s unconventional style of teaching. It was similar to Aro teaching in some unusual ways. I find it massively inspiring. Unfortunately, most information about him is not yet public.