General Practice

Introductory

With his mind fortified by the psychic changes wrought by the preliminaries, the initiate may now be properly called an adept. Though not far beyond the gateway of his journey, he is at least qualified to advance swiftly. Already, he has learned how to activate the latent forces proceeding from beyond the level of everyday consciousness.

The next step is to make fruitful use of them

This chapter deals with the basic practice that forms a background for special techniques of the kind set forth in the chapters that follow. To people unfamiliar with the theory underlying Tantric Buddhism, the daily practice may well seem an extraordinary medley of exalted conduct and meditation on the one hand and of “magic” and “superstition” on the other. In a sense, that is so, for some of the current practices were evolved from pre-Buddhist rites in accordance with the Tantric technique of bending everything available to the one high end. To some extent, the incorporation of ancient “superstitions” (but with their content subtly altered) reflects an intention to provide for simple people incapable of grasping abstract psychological concepts. Another reason is that, even in their original form, such “superstitions” are not to be dismissed. If it is not possible to demonstrate their worth, that is because modern education, while revealing so many truths of which our ancestors were ignorant, has, at the same time, inhibited our appreciation of much that they knew well.

Still another cause of misunderstanding is the Tantric technique of employing several levels of practice and understanding simultaneously. That is to say, an initiate who has reached the fourth and highest stage does not usually abandon the practices and concepts used at the lowest. Taught to see everything in four ways, he brings to bear all four levels of understanding at once or selects the one best suited to the needs of the moment. This will often appear (and be) illogical; but, as all those with experience of Zen and other forms of mysticism will agree, logical thought is actually a barrier to mystical attainment. This is so because ultimate truth transcends logical thought. For example, logic demonstrates that the one cannot simultaneously be the many and vice versa,

whereas, during profound mystical experience, it becomes brilliantly apparent that the one is multifold while yet remaining one. The application of four apparently contradictory levels of understanding to the same phenomena will become clearer when the section on Yidams is reached. There are times when it is convenient to think of them as independently existing deities, others when they are seen as emanations of the adept’s own mind, and yet others when they are recognized as void.

A Westerner attracted by some of the lofty aspects of Tantric Buddhism once exclaimed: “Splendid; I go for that mystical stuff about the void and the non-ego in a big way, but the last thing I need is a little old god or goddess sitting in my heart.” He may have been right. On the other hand, though he goes for “all that stuff about the non-ego,” does it get him anywhere, or does he pass his life with “a little old ego” of enormous weight pressing on his chest each time he wants to fly? There are Tibetans who have amply demonstrated that, with “a little old god or goddess” in their hearts, they have become great yogic adepts able to draw immense resources from mystical communion and no longer subject to the tensions and anxieties generally regarded as an integral part of the human state. Their example suggests that it is worthwhile to put aside all preconceptions before evaluating the Tantric practice.

With initiation and the preliminaries behind him, the adept has become a man apart, vowed to Bodhisattvabood for the sake of all beings. The speed of his progress will depend on the type of adept he is. Monks, hermits, and others free to devote themselves to the task day and night will probably undertake all the practices listed in this chapter, together with some Sādhanas or the psycho-physical yogic practices described later. Laymen, unless they are Nyingmapas with wives similarly dedicated, have to do the best they can in the light of their other responsibilities. They are free to choose how much of their Lama’s instruction they will work upon. For those who have the courage to attempt the Short Path, it is considered very nearly essential to take monastic vows or to live apart in some solitary place, or else marry Nyingmapa-style but sever all social and occupational ties. Laymen unable to renounce the world must, with very rare exceptions, set themselves a more modest goal for this present life.

Custom inclines one to speak of adepts as male, but female adepts are not uncommon. Even though Bodhisattvas are sometimes portrayed in female form, the canon does not speak of women attaining Liberation in this life. It is generally held that, however great her progress, a woman must be reborn a man before achieving the final goal. On the other hand, at least one of the Tulkus, or recognized sacred incarnations, is a woman who has, for centuries, been Abbess of Samding. Before the Communists came, she used to look down from the windows of Samding upon the waters of the wild, scorpion-shaped Yamding Lake. It would

seem that, if women seldom achieve a status close to that of an Enlightened One, it is because they do not, not because they cannot. Unfortunately, the English language, unlike Tibetan or Chinese, lacks a singular pronoun denoting either sex, so here we shall speak of adepts as though all of them were male. The life of a dedicated adept involves much more than observing such cardinal Buddhist virtues as right livelihood, right meditation, restraint, and avoidance of willful harm to sentient beings. All of these may be taken for granted. Even spending hours a day rapt in contemplation leading to mystical communion is not enough. The prime

essential is for his mental attitude to be firmly based on recognition of Sagsāra as Nirvāza, of sentient beings as potential Buddhas, and of the voidness of the ego. His thoughts, words, and actions should all proceed from these realizations. Meditation divorced from right conduct, or meditation and right conduct divorced from right attitude, would be as useless as playing aimlessly with a set of elaborate tools.

There is, in the Tantric view, little to be gained from piling up the hours spent in purely devotional practice and good works. These, at best, lead to acquiring a substantial stock of merit that will alleviate a small part of the unsatisfactoriness of this or the next few lives. There is no difference in result between a man whose stomach is an inch or two too big to allow him to escape from a fire by crawling through a narrow hole and one who has a mighty paunch. If there were a Supreme God, as Christians, Jews, and Moslems see Him, He might be merciful in His judgment on men who had made sincere but desultory efforts to be virtuous, giving them credit for their good intentions and making allowances for their failure to act accordingly. As it is, well-meant efforts

will avail the adept nothing; either he succeeds in going some way towards negating the ego and breaking down the obstructions to the flow of intuitive wisdom, or he does not. If not, then his labor is in vain, except that his pious practices will have left him rather less leisure in which to build up bad Karma. In short, there can be no reward for aspiration, no matter how exalted; effective practice engaging body, speech, and mind is the only means to success. In books about the Vajrayāna, descriptions of rites and visualizations are bound to occupy a disproportionate space because they can be set forth in detail and do not vary from day to day, whereas the adept’s reactions to events are as multifarious as the events themselves. All that can be said is that, ideally speaking, each moment of life should be properly employed. There are instructions for every sort of contingency. If properly carried out — as it must be in the case of a Short Path adept —, then the practice governs: walking, sitting, standing, and lying; being awake or asleep and dreaming; talking, laughing, and joking; bathing, dressing, urinating, and excreting; working, praying, playing, eating, and (if he is not a monk) love-making. There are no occasions when these dedicated men need not be mindful of what they are doing or cease making use of it for their spiritual progress. This appears to be a mighty task — and so it is, but it is less daunting than it seems because, once the means are known and the right attitude has been cultivated, much of what has to be done happens by itself. A carefully brought-up Quaker youth does not have to remind himself to be truthful — he is naturally so, truthfulness having become his second nature. So it is with the very comprehensive spiritual duties of Tantric adepts; the proper thoughts,

words, and actions presently come to them effortlessly. Naturally, few of them achieve this ideal without relapses. It may be supposed that the wisest and most devoted Lamas now and then allow their minds to slip from the task, unless they are truly extraordinary men like Milarepa. Happily, there is no humorless intensity about them. Advanced adepts are invariably relaxed and cheerful, fond of laughter, affectionate, and uncensorious. Where there is tight-lipped solemnity, something has surely gone wrong with the practice. Of the dozen or so notable Lamas I have met, all struck me as charmingly light-hearted. Their ready smiles were not the calculated smiles of politicians or of businessmen anxious “to win friends and influence people,” nor professional smiles that look like grimaces, but the unmeditated smiles of men at peace with themselves who are glad to find you happy in their company.

Daily Practice

Waking early in the morning, the adept communes with his Yidam, gets up, goes to the bathroom, bathes, and dresses, for all of which actions there are appropriate Mantras and reflections. Then, he goes to his shrine-room to perform his morning meditations and devotions. During the course of the day, his devotions (including several performances of his Sādhana and perhaps some yogic exercises), his work, his recreation, and his relations with other people are all kept largely free from egocentricity and transmuted into the blissful play of a divine being surrounded by divinities in an environment where everything is seen as a magical emanation of the pure, shining non-substance of the Void. In the evening, regardless of how much of the day has been spent in his shrine-room, he returns to it for his evening devotions and meditations. On going to bed, he communes with his Yidam and, if he knows how, prepares to perform the yoga of dreams.

Foreseeing that, during my working life, I should have difficulty in observing more than a few fragments of such a program, I took separate opportunities to ask a Mongolian Gelugpa (Yellow Hat) Lama and my principal Nyingmapa Guru what are the prime essentials. Their replies are not altogether comparable because, at that time, the former was teaching me Guru-yoga, the aim of which is to identify the adept’s body, speech, and mind with the Body, Speech, and Mind of the Yidam, whereas the Nyingmapa was expounding the Sādhana of the Essence of the Profound Meaning, so he did not, in the context of daily practice, stress the importance of the Yidam so strongly. This should be borne in mind in studying their replies. The Gelugpa Lama answered:

“On rising, listen for the Yidam’s voice. Reflect on the good fortune of being alive and able to make progress towards the goal. Reflect on the consequences of death while still in a state of delusion. Resolve to hear all sounds as the Yidam’s voice, to see your entire surroundings as Nirvāza and to recognize all beings as deities. Visualize the Yidam and repeat her Mantra not less than a hundred and eight times.

“Throughout the day, offer all good things — fresh fruit, good tea, new garments — to the Yidam. Constantly remind yourself of the proper way to hear all sounds, see all sights, and welcome all beings. Recollect the Mantra which means: ‘Spotlessly pure are all Dharmas and spotlessly pure am I!’ “When eating and drinking, visualize your body as the Yidam’s and the food and drink as offerings. If meat is eaten, repeat the Mantra of happy rebirth seven times, and earnestly desire that the sentient beings slaughtered for man’s enjoyment will be reborn in higher states. “Before sleeping, place the palm of your right hand under your cheek and visualize your Yidam seated where the pillow is, her legs supporting you. Full of joy and security, repeat the Yidam’s Mantra several times and fall peacefully asleep.

“During your devotions, if circumstances do not permit performance of the Yidam’s Sādhana, at least do not omit the prostrations, offerings, confession, generation of Bodhicitta, meditation on the Yidam, entering into Samādhi, dedication of merit, and offering of good wishes to all beings. “There are no hard and fast rules, but the emphasis should be upon reverence for the Yidam, Guru, and Triple Gem, the attainment of Samādhi, and the prayer for the dispersal of merit to others.”

The Nyingmapa Lama prescribed:

“Taking the Four Refuges [the Guru and the Triple Gem]; The generation of Bodhicitta; Confession and meditation on Vajrasattva; Samādhi, entering into void; Dedication of the resulting merit and offering of good wishes to all beings.”

He also taught that, when eating, the adept should visualize himself as Vajrasattva and make offerings to his own mind-body as to the great MazTala of peaceful and wrathful deities that emanates from the Void through Vajrasattva. The adept’s five Skandhas (form, feeling, perception, mental formations, and consciousness) and his five Dhātus (solids, liquids, heat, energy, and space) are the five Jinas and their consorts. His senses (sight, hearing, etc.) and their objects are the MazTalas of the eight Bodhisattvas and their consorts. His four limbs are the Four Fierce Gatekeepers and their consorts and, at the same time, are equated with wrong views — the right leg with belief in permanence, the right arm with belief in annihilation, the left arm with belief in ego-entities, and the left leg with belief in phenomena as signs. In thus meditating and at all other times, the Kleśas, or karmic hindrances, should be recognized as possessing, like everything else, the nature of void.

The Importance of the Yidam

The function of the Yidam is one of the profound mysteries of the Vajrayāna. At the time of the adept’s first initiation, his Lama will have assigned him a Yidam from among the peaceful and wrathful deities of the MazTala. Especially during the first years of practice, the Yidam is of immense importance. Yidam is the Tibetan rendering of the Sanskrit word I[sadeva — the indwelling deity; but, whereas the Hindus take the I[sadeva for an actual deity who has been invited to dwell in the devotee’s heart, the Yidams of Tantric Buddhism are, in fact, the emanations of the adept’s own mind. Or are they? To some extent,

they seem to belong to that order of phenomena that, in Jungian terms, are called archetypes and are, therefore, the common property of the entire human race. Even among Tantric Buddhists, there may be some division of opinion as to how far the Yidams are the creations of individual minds. What is quite certain is that they are not independently existing gods and goddesses; and yet, paradoxically, there are occasions when they must be so regarded. There may, of course, be many Tibetans who, at the outset of the practice, do not recognize the Yidams as projections of their own minds; and their Lamas may find it expedient not to reveal this fact right at the beginning, especially to people accustomed to worshipping gods and goddesses who might not be able to summon up unquestioning faith in their own mental creations.

The Yidam is, in fact, the tremendous inner power whereby the adept negates the ego and attains Enlightenment. In appearance, the Yidams look like gods and goddesses: very detailed instructions are given so that the adept can exactly visualize the appearance of the one he cherishes, so the question arises as to why it is necessary to personify this inner power, all the more so since the Yidam is not an elementary “prop” to be discarded close to the beginning of the journey. Adepts are taught that, even when nearing the highest level of spiritual progress, they should continue their practice at all four levels simultaneously. They will, therefore, variously regard their Yidams as: (1) having some of the characteristics of an external deity; (2) as being identical with themselves and yet with the Void (i.e., both relative and absolute); (3) either as dwelling within or sometimes entering their hearts; and (4) as identical with pure Jñāna (wholly absolute).

Perhaps the need for personification can be made clear as follows, taking into account people at different levels of understanding:

1. Devotees accustomed to thinking of their religious duties at the rather primitive dualist level of worshipper and worshipped may, at first, have difficulty in understanding the subtle concept of non-duality. It is easier for them to think in terms of an actual deity who has graciously come to dwell in the heart.

2. Those at a higher level of perception know very well that the Yidam is not a deity apart from the worshipper, but they find it expedient to act as though it were so. No one can conceive of the nature of the Dharmakāya and similar high mysteries without employing symbols, even if the symbols are not objects but names (i.e., sounds or groups of letters). People use words like “Dharma” or “God” a hundred times a day without stopping to reflect on their full significance. There is no real superiority in using a name rather than a form to symbolize something; indeed, the two often go together. To penetrate to the depths of mind where logical reasoning and discursive thought are transcended, purely abstract symbols, such as words, are ineffective, hence the need for more concrete symbols perceptible to the inner vision.

3. As to what concrete symbols are most suitable, there are present, within the universal consciousness, figures that, as it were, are endowed with form and life not wholly determined by the mind of the individual. These are embodiments of realities not present at the ordinary level of consciousness.

4. Since intuitions of this kind lie readily at hand, great advantage can be taken of them. When Tantrists are instructed to identify their body, speech, and mind with the Body, Speech, and Mind of the Buddha, what this really means is the attainment of communion at all levels with the reality lying beyond the realm of distorted sense perception. Inasmuch as the Body, Speech, and Mind of the Buddha are actually functions of the Void, it is simpler, in the first place, to aim at identification with the triple faculty of a chosen deity who can be regarded, according to the need of the moment, as being material or immaterial.

5. Either from the first or at a very early stage of his practice, the adept realizes that these embodiments of realities present at the deeper levels of consciousness are not the gods and goddesses for which people of other cultures have mistaken them, but emanations of his own mind and, simultaneously, of the void/non-void which is the Dharmakāya — ultimate reality. They include forces such as wisdom, compassion, liberating activity, and many more particularized emanations of these. Such forces are able to bring about the fulfillment of a need that is everywhere felt but seldom recognized for what it is. The youth

pining for his beloved, the child crying for its mother, the idealist groping for some means of ushering in universal happiness — all of these are people longing for something not at hand, the presence of which, so they believe, would banish sorrow and discontent; but when the longed-for object is attained, full satisfaction remains illusive, for the true object of their longing is not what they supposed. Their thirst cannot be quenched by the (frequently changing) beings or ideals they take to be its objects, but only by its real object, the blissful state of Nirvāza. The Buddha principle, of which the Triple Gem is the primary embodiment and which expresses itself as the urge to Enlightenment, engenders compassionate means to draw them towards their true goal. Blinded by

ignorance (Avidyā) and karmic defilements (Kleśas), they think in terms of form, dimensions, color, texture, and, therefore, it is expedient to clothe the true object of their longing in forms perceptible to their minds and senses, which will vanish in due course. In response to this need, the forces of wisdom, compassion, and liberating action can be made to appear in embodied form. Cherished in the heart, the Yidams transform people’s passions and inordinate desires into power and adoration free from stain. When the devotee has learned to perceive his goal in its subtle form — not just conceive of it intellectually — the need for Yidams is gone, and they dissolve into the Void.

The Yidam is usually selected to accord with the devotee’s wishes or temperament; e.g., sometimes the choice falls upon a wrathful deity such as the bull-headed, blue-bodied, many armed Yamantaka, who dances on prostrate corpses amidst a sea of flames. (This is the wrathful form of the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī,64 the embodiment of wisdom.) Sometimes, a gentle female deity such as the White or Green Tārā65 is deemed more suitable. A wrathful Yidam of terrible aspect is selected for those of fiery temperament who must be ruled by fear; for the Yidams, with power acquired from mind, soon come to control the people whose bodies

they inhabit — whether through love or fear. To men of emotional temperament easily moved by the beauty of women, whether their adoration is already of an exalted kind or frankly sexual, a lovely female Yidam is given, one to whom the warmth of romantic feeling purified of its grosser content can be transferred. It is reported that, in some particular cases, the Lamas think it salutary for the Yidam to be worshipped for a time with undisguised sexual adoration, but I have not heard of anyone receiving this teaching and am not sure that it is

In Mahāyāna Buddhism, the Bodhisattva (“Buddha-to-be”) personifying supreme wisdom. His name means “gentle, or sweet, glory” in Sanskrit. In China, he is called Wenshu Shili (Wen-shu Shih-li), in Japan Monju, and in Tibet ’Jam-dpal. Although Sūtras (Buddhist scriptures) were composed in his honor by at least 250 C.E., he does not seem to have been represented in Buddhist art before 400 C.E. He is most commonly shown wearing princely ornaments, his right hand holding aloft the sword of wisdom to cleave the clouds of ignorance, and his left hand holding a palm-leaf manuscript of the Prajñāpāramitā. He is sometimes

depicted seated on a lion or on a blue lotus; and, in paintings, his skin is usually yellow in color. His cult spread widely in China in the 8th century. Though he is usually considered a celestial Bodhisattva, some traditions endow him with a human history. He is said to manifest himself in many ways — in dreams; as a pilgrim on his sacred mountain; as an incarnation of the monk Vairocana, who introduced Buddhism into Khotan; as the Tibetan reformer Atīśa; and as the emperor of China.

Tibetan Dolma, Buddhist savior-goddess with numerous forms, widely popular in Nepal, Tibet, and Mongolia. She is the feminine counterpart of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara. According to popular belief, she came into existence from a tear of Avalokiteśvara, which fell to the ground and formed a lake. Out of its waters, a lotus rose up, which, on opening, revealed the goddess. Like Avalokiteśvara, she is a compassionate, succoring deity who helps men “cross to the other shore.” She is the protectress of navigation and earthly travel, as well as of spiritual travel along the path to Enlightenment. In Tibet, she is believed to be incarnate in every pious woman, and the two wives — a Chinese princess and a Nepali princess — of the first Buddhist king of Tibet, Songtsen Gampo, were identified with the two major forms of Tārā. The White Tārā was incarnated as the Chinese princess. She symbolizes purity and is often represented standing at the right hand of her consort, Avalokiteśvara, or seated with legs crossed, holding a full-blown lotus. She is generally shown with a third eye. Tārā is also sometimes shown with eyes on the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands (then she is called “Tārā of the Seven Eyes,” a form of the goddess popular in Mongolia). The Green Tārā was believed to be incarnated as the Nepali princess. She is considered by some to be the original Tārā and is the female consort, or sexual partner, of Avalokiteśvara. She is generally shown seated on a lotus throne with her right leg hanging down, wearing the ornaments of a Bodhisattva and holding the closed blue lotus.

The white and green Tārās, with their contrasting symbols of the full-blown and closed lotus, are said to symbolize, between them, the unending compassion of the deity who labors both day and night to relieve suffering. Under the influence of Tibetan Lamaism, the different forms of Tārā multiplied to a traditional 108. Tibetan temple banners frequently show twenty-one different Tārās, colored white, red, and yellow, grouped around a central green Tārā. The figure of the “self-born” Buddha, Amitābha, is often shown in her headdress, since she, like Avalokiteśvara, is considered to be an emanation of Amitābha.

In her ferocious, blue form, invoked to destroy enemies, she is known as Ugra-Tārā, or Ekajasā; as a red goddess of love, Kurukullā; and as a protectress against snake bite, Jāygulī. The yellow Bh0kusī is an angry Tārā, with frowning brows.

given. On the other hand, why not? The purpose of the Vajrayāna is to employ whatever expedients exist to free men of ego-centered passions in order to liberate them quickly from the vicious karmic circle. If there are men who could be assisted by such means, there is no reason to suppose it would be avoided. Tantrists are not puritans; if, in most cases, they prefer chastity, that is because it is generally found more expedient for Liberation. Most often, a female Yidam is used in such cases to concentrate the power of the romantic urge, purify it of its physical component, and put it at the adept’s disposal to assist in the conquest of his ego.

My Nyingmapa Lama’s teaching about the nature and functions of the Yidam was as follows:

“The adept’s chief Yidam, though nothing other than the play of his own consciousness, must, in Guru-yoga, be adored as the embodiment of the Guru, the Triple Gem, the Void. When, by powerful devotion, we behold the Yidam face to face, the internal is manifested, and the external internalized. Absence of doubt is essential. When the Yidam is visualized, the adept must feel with deep assurance ‘I am Tārā’ (or whoever the Yidam may be).

“Devotion to the Yidam is of special value in preparing for death; for what appears then will be whatever one has exerted himself towards. If the Yidam appears — excellent! If the dying man can identify his body, speech, and mind with Body, Speech, and Mind, then all will most certainly be well. Or, if he recognizes the five chief wrathful deities that rise in his head at his death as the five Jinas, and recognizes the latter, in turn, as the five Jñānas; and if he remembers that, apart from the five aggregates — form, feeling, perception, mental formations, and consciousness —, four of which are in the mind, there is no man (self), he will be liberated.”

As to the manner in which Yidams are cherished, what I know is limited to Mahā Ārya Tārā, for I have had no instruction regarding the others, but I do not doubt that the methods used with all the Yidams are broadly similar, though varied in accordance with the Yidam’s peaceful or wrathful nature. Those who practice Guru-yoga with Ārya Tārā as the indwelling “deity,” daily perform a Tārā Sādhana of the kind described in the next chapter, and, in all

their visualizations, she is the central figure into which all the other deities merge before she herself unites with the adept and the Void in perfect Samādhi. Throughout the day, all means of enjoyment are offered to her. At moments of anxiety or danger, her form is called to mind, and her Mantra repeated. All sounds are heard as her voice, and all objects of perception equated with her. Yet, it is never forgotten that she is an emanation of the Void and that the adept’s identification with her arises from the voidness of his own real nature. After the evening devotions, when he retires, he envisions a lovely Chinese-temple-like pavilion she has created of crossed Vajras to enclose his bed. Above the pavilion revolves her green Dhārazī, a circle composed of the

written syllables corresponding to her Mantra. Each time he awakens, this Dhārazī descends and revolves around his head. This, besides inducing a sense of marvelous security, helps him to control his dreams or to observe them impartially as though another person were doing the dreaming. Whenever, as part of a dream, danger seems to threaten, the sleeper finds himself repeating the Mantra that must be on his lips when he really comes to die. The adept’s emotional feelings towards his Yidam are warmly human. Her beauty, like that of a lovely woman, stirs his adoration, but it is of a sort that transcends physical desire. He knows that he is, in fact, adoring the active principle of compassion that, united with Buddha-Wisdom, draws people irresistibly away from Sagsāra’s toils.

It is clear that, in Guru-yoga, there is an obvious and intentional paradox. The Yidam is simultaneously regarded as a real entity — the Protector, the Beloved — and yet as a creation of the adept’s mind, a personification of the abstract forces of wisdom and compassion, and, therefore, synonymous with the voidness of the ultimate Source. It is a psychological conjuring trick, and its value is best demonstrated by the attitude and conduct of the people who perform it. It would not be surprising if psychiatrists were to castigate it as a sure way to insanity; yet Tibetans, almost every one of whom cherishes a Yidam, are, by and large, a people eminently sane and free from the stresses and complexes that wreak such havoc among the peoples of the modern world — particularly psychiatrists.

The Shrine

For Vajrayāna rituals, the adjuncts vary from the most elaborate paraphernalia to nothing at all. The ascetics who inhabit secluded caves bare of all adornment do without ritual accessories or mentally create what is needed by an act of mind alone or by visualization reinforced by appropriate Mantras and Mudrās. (For example, to create lights, the hands are held palm upwards with the fingers curled and the thumbs pointing up from as near the center of the hand as possible to suggest the wicks in butter-lamps; a Mantra containing the word “ahga” is pronounced, and a multitude of brilliant lamps appear, which remain burning throughout the rite.) For a practice that is essentially mental, there is no need for material adjuncts; on the other hand, many people — at any rate Tibetans — find them helpful, and shrines in temples and in private houses are generally elaborate. The shrines are likely to be situated in the top storey, as, throughout Asia, it is considered improper to stand above whatever is accorded reverence.

A typical Buddhist household shrine consists of a high table or cabinet where the sacred symbols stand backed by scroll pictures hanging from the wall, and a lower table set with offerings and implements. In front is a square cushion on which the adept sits cross-legged. Tantric shrines, linked like everything else to the triple faculty of body, speech, and mind, generally contain three sacred objects. In the center is a statue of the Buddha or of the Yidam representing Body; on the left as one faces the shrine, is a sacred text wrapped in maroon or yellow cloth representing Speech; and, on the right, is a miniature reliquary tower representing Mind. Alternatively, they represent Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. Pictures of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and other deities hang behind, with, perhaps, the likenesses of the Guardians etched in gold on black paper in a corner apart.

The essential offerings are of seven kinds (eight for Gelugpa adepts), namely, two bowls of water (symbolizing purity of mind and body), one of rice with a flower laid upon it (beauty), one of rice from which rises an unlighted incense taper (the Dharma’s all-pervasiveness), one of oil containing a lighted wick (illumination), one of scented water (devotion), one of rice with a fruit upon it (gratitude) and, for the Gelugpas, one of rice supporting a tiny conch-shell (sacred sound). Often, there are fourteen or sixteen bowls, i.e., two identical rows of offerings placed in reverse order, to indicate that the statue above the altar and the adept’s own body are both representations of the Buddha principle. Often, the bowls will be filled with pure water instead of the offerings

specified. During the morning rite, this water is converted into the appropriate substances by an act of mind accompanied by the appropriate Mantras and Mudrās. There may also be other offerings, such as silver lamps filled with solid butter into the center of which a stiff wick has been inserted (or, outside Tibet, yellow candles of mineral wax), vases of flowers, and incense smoldering in an oblong burner. The lid of the burner may have perforations forming the Mantra Og Mazi Padme Hūg, so that the smoke rises in the form of its syllables, starting with Og and finishing with Hūg as the tapers lying on a bed of ash burn towards their butts. The efficacy of the offerings resides, of course, in the effect of the symbolism upon the adept’s own mind. A kind of offering peculiar to Tibet and Mongolia consists of small figures made of butter and dough sometimes mixed with a red pigment; these are shaped in

different ways for different categories of deities, each shape having its esoteric significance. These figures are called “tormas” and are probably among the externals that Tibetan Buddhism inherited from the ancient Bön religion. Many Tibetans are expert at modeling not only tormas but much more elaborate figures from flour and butter or pure butter lifelike deities, amusing birds and animals, or wicked-looking demons. As the Vajrayāna spreads elsewhere, it will be interesting to see if this special art goes too.

As to ritual implements, the most important are the vajra-scepter and vajra-bell held in the hands during certain rites while Mudrās are being formed by hands and fingers. Ordinary laymen are not taught how to use them, but it is well known that the vajra-scepter embodies skillful means and compassion and that the bell symbolizes the wisdom with which means and compassion must be united. Another implement is the Tāmaru, or clapper-drum, with sounding pellets attached to it by leather thongs; the furious rattle of this drum and insistent tinkling of the vajra-bell mark the separate stages of each rite. The former sounds like hail pelting fiercely upon the roof and, combined with the sound of the bell, creates a sense of terrible urgency, a reminder that not a moment must be lost in utilizing this precious opportunity of escaping Sagsāra’s snare. It is this sound more than any other that dwells in the minds of people who have lived among Tibetans.

I have never seen, in any book, a detailed reference to the important part played by percussion instruments in the rituals of Eastern cultures, especially the Chinese, Japanese, and Tibetans, but I know from my own experience that the elemental sounds produced by striking wood, stone, metal, and stretched hide are conducive to those states of consciousness that the meditator seeks to enter. Something deep within ourselves responds to them, as to the eerier sounds of nature — the drip or gush of water, the drumming of hail, and the crackle and crash of thunder.

In the introductory remarks to the texts of Sādhanas, there are instructions to keep the shrine spotlessly clean and make it attractive to the invisible beings who may come thronging about the adept to join in the rites. The shrine should never be profaned by unsuitable objects, but there is no means of preventing the entrance of impious sentient beings. In most Asian countries, rats are plentiful and the daily scattering of rice grains during the MazTala offering is an event known throughout the neighborhood. Rats lurk behind the thangkas (sacred scroll-pictures) and in the narrow space between the altar and the wall, waiting to pounce as soon as the rite is over.

The shrine is used for morning and evening rites and also for meditations and Sādhanas at the appropriate times of the night and day. (For example, the Ārya Tārā Sādhana must be timed to avoid overlapping the hours of dawn, noon, sunset, and midnight. It is best performed in the hours before sunrise.) For someone with a shrine in his house, not to perform morning and evening rites would be considered a serious breach of respect for the Triple Gem — an idea which perhaps lingers from pre-Buddhist times when deities were regarded anthropomorphically.

Regular Rites and Meditations

The daily devotions are likely to include “Calling Upon the Lama to Arouse Him” or some similar rite directed to the Guru; taking refuge; invocation of the Yidam; the generation of Bodhicitta; a brief Vajrasattva meditation for purification; entering the Four Immeasurables; meditation upon the Ten Evils and Ten Virtues accompanied by confession; meditation upon the voidness of the ego and non-duality; and entering Samādhi. These form a background to the main Sādhana on which the adept is working.

While the generation of Bodhicitta was performed as one of the preliminaries, a single verse formed the heart of the rite, but the adept will by now be working on a more subtle practice for generating absolute Bodhicitta, in connection with which there is a Nyingmapa poem that contains the very essence of Mahāyāna Buddhist thought.

“E Ma O! O wondrous Dharma most marvelously rare, Profoundest mystery of the Perfect Ones, Within the Birthless, all things take their birth, Yet taking birth is naught which can be born!

E Ma O!

O wondrous Dharma most marvelously rare, Profoundest mystery of the Perfect Ones, Within the Ceaseless, all things cease to be, Yet ceasing thus is nothing that can cease!

E Ma O!

O wondrous Dharma most marvelously rare, Profoundest mystery of the Perfect Ones, Within the Non-Abiding, all abides, Yet, thus abiding, there abideth naught!

E Ma O! O wondrous Dharma most marvelously rare, Profoundest mystery of the Perfect Ones, In Non-Perception, all things are perceived, Yet this perceiving is quite perceptionless!

E Ma O!

O wondrous Dharma most marvelously rare, Profoundest mystery of the Perfect Ones, In the Unmoving, all things come and go, Yet in that movement nothing ever moves!

Similarly, the Vajrasattva purification will have had a section added to the preliminary form. During the preliminaries, the rite ended with Vajrasattva dissolving into light and merging with the adept. It is now continued from this point:

Around the Hūg, which is the life-essence of His heart, shine the four syllables Og Vajra Sat-tva, radiating light in all directions; and the Triple World becomes Buddha in the form of the Five Vajrasattva Families and Their Field. Visualize your body as being of the nature of light and as a replica of Vajrasattva. In your heart is a moon-disc bearing a blue Hūg; to the east (front), a white Og; to the south (right), a yellow Vajra; to the west (back), a red

Sat; to the north (left), a green Tva. From these letters, blazing light-rays spread everywhere, filling immeasurable space and reaching the abodes of all sentient beings. (Among those beings, all of whom are present, your parents and chief enemies stand closest to yourself, being similarly purified.) The offerings in the form of light from the glowing syllables are made to the Jinas of the five directions. They purify all worlds and all that is contained in

them. Thus, all worlds become Buddha-fields, and all sentient beings become Vajrasattvas of the five sacred colors, while all sounds are transformed into Og Vajra Sat-tva Hūg, which you should continually repeat, syllable by syllable, as your thought passes from Og to Vajra to Sat to Tva and to Hūg. Observe that the heart of the Vajrasattva methods, which constitute the basic exercise of the MazTala of peaceful and wrathful deities, requires the acceptance of all sounds as Mantra and of all perceptions as Buddha-fields containing countless Vajrasattvas.

The rite may end at this point, although there is a further section for advanced adepts. There is a note in the text to the effect that the inner meaning of the final section will become apparent as progress is made and that one of the signs of successful purification is to dream of foul matters expelled from the body.

Apart from these ritual and meditative exercises, which, excluding the Sādhana, will occupy not more than three or four hours a day, the adept is adjured to follow the practices already described on getting up, eating, retiring, and so forth, as well as to bathe, defecate, and urinate with the proper reflections and Mantras. Every moment of the day can be made to contribute to negating the ego and overcoming obstacles that inhibit the influx of intuitive wisdom. Dreams are important quite apart from the yoga of dreams, since some of them are clear indications of the degree of success attained. As to general conduct throughout the day, this will depend on the type of adept, his personality, and his competence in Tantric practice. Hermits, yogis,

monks, Upāsakas (laymen devoted to religious duties),69 and ordinary householders all have their separate ways of living. It is the ordinary layman who stands most in need of a knowledge of Tantric methods for turning Kleśas to good account. Hermits and monks are beset by fewer hindrances; yogis are so immersed in non-duality that they can do so as they please without fear of starting up a chain of karmic consequences; Upāsakas are generally abstemious men in firm control of their passions. With ordinary laymen, it is otherwise. Involved in worldly pursuits, they face innumerable obstacles. Therefore, they require detailed instruction in methods of transmuting their cravings and passions, even if their modest aim is to make enough progress to ensure rebirth in a state attended by the two precious endowments — a human body and knowledge of the Dharma.

69 Upāsaka (f. Upāsikā), literally, “one who sits close by.” Buddhist lay adherent who, by affirmation of the threefold refuge (in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha), acknowledges himself as such and vows to observe the Five Precepts (not to kill, steal, commit sexual misconduct, lie, or take intoxicants). According to the Theravādin view, the overwhelming majority of lay practitioners are still far from the final goal of Liberation, since they are not ready to give up their worldly life and its pleasures. Still, they can accumulate merit (Puzya), especially through the practice of generosity (Dāna), and this enables

them to be reborn as monks or nuns and, still later, to become Arahants. In this way, they can advance on the way to Nirvāza. The Pali canon, it should be noted, mentions several particularly pious lay disciples who attained Arahantship. Thus, in principle, the Theravāda acknowledges the possibilty that lay disciples can attain Liberation, but this is considered exceedingly rare. In Theravādin Buddhist countries, lay adherents are the bearers of food, clothing, processions, music, and so on. The monastic community expects that the lay community will care for the material welfare of monks and nuns.

In Mahāyāna Buddhism, lay followers are of greater importance, since their possibility of attaining Liberation is no longer discounted. The ideal figure of the Mahāyāna, the Bodhisattva, is a layperson.

In China, formal ordination of lay adherents, usually as part of a ceremony ordaining monks, is common. Lay ordination consists of vowing to observe the Five Precepts. In case, for any reason, one or more of these precepts cannot be observed, it is possible to take on only the remaining ones. As a sign of ordniantion, Upāsakas are branded three or more times on the inside of the arm. Lay disciples usually go on to take the Bodhisattva vow (Prazidhāna) after lay ordination.

Special Rites

There are days of the Tibetan lunar month dedicated to particular beings such as Guru Rinpoche and Ārya Tārā and days sacred to the adept’s own Yidam and to the Guardian Deities of his sect, to say nothing of the annual festivals such as Losar (Tibetan New Year). For all of these, there are special practices. Then again, there are rites intended to bring about specific results such as healing the sick or bringing good fortune to a household or community. These,

though a part of Tibetan Buddhism with counterparts in every Buddhist country, are, from a Tantric point of view, of secondary importance, but the rites employed may be of a Tantric nature. There are two views as to their efficacy. At the popular level, regular worship and propitiation of divine beings still survives from pre-Buddhist days. At a different level of understanding, it is recognized that effective psychic force can indeed be conjured up by people intent upon the worship or propitiation of gods and demons, so the practice is not actively discouraged. Anything that can instill into people’s minds veneration for spiritual forces is held to have some value.

The Chöd Rite

A Nyingmapa yoga widely practiced from time to time by adepts of all sects is the Chöd rite, which literally means “Cutting Off.” Used for destroying passions and karmic accretions, it may have been evolved from a pre-Buddhist rite within the category of demon sacrifice, but it has been given a Buddhist content that brings it into accord with Mahāyāna doctrine. At first sight, it may look like a grisly charade, but, in fact, it is a rite that needs courage, especially

since it has to be performed in the solitude of the high mountains. The more unsophisticated type of Tibetan adept has a lively faith in the existence of actual demons quite apart from the beings mentally created during a Sādhana. He will firmly believe that, if he fails to impose the mantric safeguards properly, real demons will materialize and, taking him at his word, strip his flesh to stay their hunger!

In the opening stage, the adept, in the form of a certain Goddess, dances the dance that destroys erroneous beliefs. Identifying his passions and desires with his own body, he offers it as a feast to the Dākinīs. Next. he visualizes it as a “fat, luscious-looking corpse” of vast extent and, mentally withdrawing from it, watches the Goddess Vajrayoginī sever its head and convert his skull into a gigantic cauldron, into which she tosses chunks of his bone and slices of

his flesh. Then, by using words of power, he transmutes the whole offering into pure nectar and calls upon the various orders of supernatural beings to devour it. For fear they should be impatient, he begs them not to hesitate to eat the offering raw instead of wasting time on cooking it. What is more, he dedicates the merit of his sacrifice to the very beings who are devouring him and to all sentient beings in general wherever they may be. His final prayer is that the Uncreated Essence of the Pure, Unborn Mind will arise in all of them and that he himself will be able to complete his ascetic practices successfully. All this must be done in a solitary, awe-inspiring place, and the adept must take care to master the rites that will keep him safe amidst a horrid host of blood-drinking demons. If he is skilled in visualization, he will actually behold these creatures and see his body being hacked and torn by Vajrayoginī.

Preparation for Death

The rites in connection with death are of very great importance and involve the co-operation of the dying man, which is continued after his death;71 for it is believed that, when the consciousness begins its wanderings in the bardo, or intermediate state between death and rebirth, the words whispered by the Lama into the ear of the corpse can still reach him. In the first bardo stage dawns the Clear Light of the Void, which, if the adept clings to it instead of cowering from it in terror, will immediately bring about his Liberation. But he is more likely to turn and flee. During the remainder of his wanderings in the bardo,

throughout which his chances of Liberation or of a good rebirth progressively recede, the whispered advice of his Lama may still help him. Daily practice in the art of dying is vital, whether to prepare the adept to receive his Lama’s final guidance or for fear that no Lama will be at hand when he comes to die. Of special importance is the teaching that the human state — the only vehicle for Enlightenment72 — once lost is hard to regain. Unless careful preparation for death has been made, the consciousness will be reborn in non-human forms many, many times —

without distorting fictions. Although she may be visualized alone, she is usually in union (Yab-Yum) with Heruka, who, when he is united with Vajrayoginī, is known as Hevajra. As such, he is very popular in Tibet, particularly with the Kargyupa, whose tutelary deity he is. In spite of her importance in Vajrayāna Buddhism, Vajrayoginī does not figure as the main deity of a Tantra. There are four Sādhanas (methods of visualization) describing her various forms.

71 See The Tibetan Book of the Dead: The Great Liberation through Hearing in the Bardo, translated with commentary by Francesca Fremantle and Chögyam Trungpa (Shambhala), and The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, by Sogyal Rinpoche (Harper San Francisco). Of special interest is the stress placed on the fact that all the deities of the MazTala and the bardo emanate from within man’s own consciousness.

72 This does not mean that Enlightenment cannot be attained in one of the states succeeding death; indeed all Mahāyāna Buddhists, including Vajrayāna followers, believe that it can be achieved in any of the mind-produced paradises specially created by the Blessed Ones for that purpose. What is meant is that the quest must be entered upon while in possession of a human body. If some progress is made, then Enlightenment at some period after death is not only possible but likely; relatively few people are capable of Enlightenment at the moment of death.

perhaps for eons — before the dual endowment of birth as a human being in a land where the Dharma is preached is obtained once more. There are several ways of preparing for death, the choice depending on the devotee’s skill and yogic ability. The easiest and most widely practiced is to make sure that, whether the devotee is awake or asleep at the moment of death, the Yidam’s Mantra will spring to his lips, and the Yidam’s form will be clearly visualized. If this happens, it is believed that the Yidam will conduct him through the bardo to one of the heavens projected from the minds of the Blessed Ones, whence, after an interval varying from a few days to an eon or more, he can enter directly into Nirvāza or undertake voluntary rebirth in Sagsāra to carry out his Bodhisattva’s vow. To ensure that his being asleep at the moment of death will not prevent him from uttering the Yidam’s Mantra, he may attempt to master the Yoga of the Dream State and thereby learn to control his dreams.

Another way, suited to more advanced adepts, is to study the Yoga of the Bardo State and, by that and other means, ensure that there is no break in the continuity of consciousness during the three successive states of dying, death, and after death. If consciousness can be maintained and if the fruits of years of study of the Dharma are present in the memory, it may be possible to escape rebirth (other than voluntary rebirth as a Bodhisattva) by facing up to the brilliant radiance of the Clear Light during the first stage of the bardo.

The most difficult but effective way of all is to become proficient in the Yoga of Consciousness Transference, which will enable the consciousness to depart from the body just prior to death and take up its residence in a body of the dying man’s own choice. However, this requires proficiency in an advanced type of Yoga that will be described in the next chapter. For one unable to perform it successfully and not yet ripe for Enlightenment, the best that can be hoped for is that, thanks to his careful preparation for the experiences of the bardo, he will not plunge blindly into the womb of an animal, supernatural being, or unsuitable human mother, but choose birth in human form under circumstances that will favor his progress along the path.

As to the mind-produced paradises compassionately created by certain of the Blessed Ones (Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and others), it is said that rebirth there is attainable only by those who have at least made sincere efforts to heed the Dharma. If such a rebirth is attained, Liberation is sure, for those states have been specially established to provide conditions conducive to progress towards Enlightenment. They are described as places where earth and trees are made of precious substances and where jeweled birds sing gloriously of the Dharma. It may be that the mind of the departed does indeed experience his surroundings in that form, or perhaps the descriptions of jewels and precious substances symbolize formless states in which the mind absorbs the saving wisdom that it was too cluttered with mundane knowledge to take in before.

Meditation in Cemeteries

Monks and yogis often spend some time meditating, as Buddhists have done since the very beginning, in graveyards, charnel grounds, or places where the bodies of the dead are compassionately offered to feed birds and beasts. This practice has two advantages. Meditation on decay and corruption effectively drives home the truth of transience and brings vividly to mind the unsatisfactoriness of Sagsāra; moreover, it is said to banish carnal desire. For Tantric adepts, there is a much greater advantage. Seated in meditation amidst bones and rotting flesh, with the stink of corruption in their nostrils, they seek to achieve a

non-dual state of mind in which no distinction is made between objects of attraction and revulsion, all things being regarded as manifestations of pure, shining Void. The horrors depicted in Tibetan iconography — corpses, skulls, bones, blood, demonic forms, and terrible weapons —, besides having an esoteric meaning that equates them with the destruction of karmic hindrances, are intended to stress non-duality. The frightful Yamantaka, with his bull’s head and necklace of skulls, who dances upon corpses drained of blood, is no other than Mañjuśrī, the tranquil embodiment of wisdom. In itself, the gleaming headsman’s axe is as much an object of beauty and should be as undisturbing as the lotus in full flower.

Pilgrimage

Up to this point, the practices described have been mainly for monks or laymen of considerable ability with a reasonably high level of understanding. Many other methods have been devised for laymen who, however pious, have no leisure for frequent meditation or who cannot cope with any but the simplest practices. A kind of devotion very popular among Tibetans and Mongols of every class is pilgrimage. Tibet, Mongolia, and northern China are studded with sacred lakes and mountains, famous temples, and reliquary towers to which, until the Communists came to power, pilgrims used to flock by the thousands. I once met some Mongols

who had spent years journeying on foot from the forests of northern Manchuria to one of China’s sacred mountains, Wu Tai Shan (Wu T’ai Shan), and who intended to go home in the same arduous way. They had no money but had begged their way all along the route. In Thailand, one sees Tibetan traders who have traveled overland through India and Myanmar (Burma) buying and selling along the way so as to be able to visit the shrines in the southern part of the Buddhist world. Such people are often illiterates with little understanding of the profounder teachings, but full of devotion to the Dharma and eager to express their love as best they can.

Some pilgrims, hoping to acquire merit, deliberately add to the hardships of the journey by kneeling down every three paces and touching their foreheads to the earth in the direction of the shrine they are approaching. This kind of discipline is permissible to Buddhists if it does not have harmful physical consequences, whereas flagellation or any kind of self-torture is strictly forbidden.

The climax of a pilgrimage takes the form of perambulation. This consists of walking slowly round the principal center of devotion 108 or 1,080 or 10,800 times, perhaps stopping to make grand prostrations at every three steps. During perambulation, the mind is held still, and an appropriate Mantra is recited to the rhythm of walking or breathing. As with everything else, body, speech, and mind must play their part. People unable to go on long pilgrimages are fond of perambulating towers or temples in the neighborhood. The practice is warmly recommended since, combined with meditation, it is a means of combating the ill effects of sedentary practice.

Special Uses of Mantras

Besides the Mantras pertaining to the Yidam and to the daily performance of Sādhanas and rites, the adept will be taught others for use on appropriate occasions. In particular, Mantra recitation constitutes the main practice of farmers and artisans who need a form of devotion-cum-meditation for use at work. It is at once a simple and very effective technique. Of Mantras used in this way, the Mazi is by far the commonest and will serve as an example of them all. It consists of the six syllables Og Mazi Padme Hūg, to which so much meaning is attached that Lama Govinda’s attempt to explain them developed into a book of three hundred pages!

In common with all Mantras, the Mazi has Og as its first syllable. Og stands for the totality of sound and, indeed, for the totality of existence. Originally written Aum, it starts at the back of the throat and ends with the lips. It is chief among the sounds to which a mystical creative quality is attached. Translators who have rendered it “O,” “Oh,” or “Hail” have obviously misconceived its meaning and its function. The A stands for consciousness of the external world; U, for consciousness of what goes on inside our minds; and M, for consciousness of the non-dual, unqualified emptiness of the Void. The next syllable is Mazi, meaning the Jewel. It is equated with Vajra, the adamantine non-substance that is perfectly void and yet more impervious to harm or change than the hardest substance known to chemistry. Mazi is the symbol of highest value within our own mind, the pure void that is always to be found there when the intervening layers of murky consciousness are pierced.

Padma (of which Padme is the vocative form — in Tibet, this is pronounced “Paymay”) literally means the Lotus. It is the symbol of spiritual unfoldment whereby the Mazi is finally reached. Hūg, like Og, is untranslatable. Og is the infinite and Hūg is the infinite within the finite and therefore stands for our potential Enlightenment, the perception of the void within the non-void, Mind in the form of mind, the unconditioned in the conditioned, the transcendental in the ephemeral, the subtle embodied in the dense. This, above all other mantric syllables, symbolizes the central truth of the Vajrayāna — the truth of voidness enclosed within the petals of non-void.

Og and Hūg, however, are much more than symbols. Properly used, they have the power to awaken in the human consciousness an intuitive understanding of truths impossible to clothe in words. Mazi Padme, the Jewel and the Lotus that form the body of the Mantra, have, even at the surface level, a number of complementary meanings. For example, the Lotus stands for the Dharma and the Jewel for the liberating truth it enfolds; or the Lotus is the world of form and the Jewel, the formless world, the reality infusing form; and so on.

Og Mazi Padme Hūg is the Mantra sacred to Avalokiteśvara, who is known in Tibet as Chenresig and is revealed there in male form; whereas in China and Japan, a similar Bodhisattva in female form is known as Guanyin (Kuanyin) and Kannon respectively. Avalokiteśvara is the embodiment of the active principle of compassion (Karuzā) and is, therefore, specially invoked by people in distress.

One way of using the Mantra is to recite it while radiating thoughts of compassion to the sentient beings of the six realms. The syllables are intoned rather slowly; as each is pronounced, the thoughts are directed to the beings in the appropriate state of existence, and the written form of the respective syllable visualized as sending forth brilliant rays to bring comfort to the beings there:

Og white deities Ma green Asuras (semi-divine beings) Ṇi yellow humans Pad blue animals Me red Pretas (hungry ghosts) Hūg black hell beings

Superficially, this may appear to be no more than an exercise in developing sympathy for others; but it is believed that, by virtue of the sacred syllables and by properly focusing his mind, the devotee enters mystical communication with the Bodhisattva and thereby achieves the power to make his compassionate thoughts effective. To one who beholds the entire universe as a mental creation, there is nothing strange in the notion of mind becoming reidentified with Mind and thus having a beneficial effect upon mind’s contents, though it might be thought that the power of the effect must depend on the density of karmic obstruction between mind and Mind which the mantric force has to pierce. Or, it may be held that this is immaterial, that the devotee by his own sincerity activates the immense resources of the Bodhisattva’s power.

Another use of the Mazi is in connection with the most simple kind of yogic breathing exercise. With each slow inhalation and exhalation, one syllable is silently pronounced, and its written form visualized with such concentration that the mind is gradually led into Samādhi in which all thought is replaced by object-free awareness.

By non-Tantrists, the Mazi may be taken to be a string of sounds and symbols used as an aid to concentration. The Tantric view is that, since the Mantra has a force that enables the devotee to tap the inner resources of his consciousness at a level where there is no thick barrier between his own and universal consciousness, he can draw upon great power, either to assist his spiritual development or to make compassionate thought a fruitful gift to others.

That Lamas, in thinking of the Mazi as a source of cosmic power, may not be as far removed from the psychologist’s position as might be thought is illustrated by the story of a semi-illiterate Chinese who, given the Mazi to work on in his meditations, mistook the writing of Hūg for a rather similar Chinese word meaning “ox.” After practicing with Og Mazi Padme Ox for years, during which his spiritual, progress was satisfactory, he learnt of his mistake from an acquaintance. Thereupon, he set to work with Og Mazi Padme Hūg only to discover that he could make no headway. It seemed that his progress had deserted him, until he chanced to meet his Lama again. On the Lama’s advice he went back to using Og Mazi Padme Ox and all was well!

One aspect of popular Tibetan Buddhism that has drawn disparaging remarks from critics is the use of prayer-flags and prayer-mills that cause Mantras to flutter in the breeze and Dhārazīs to whirl in the streams. These critics pour scorn on what they take for examples of mechanical religious practice carried to extremes. Even if that were so, one might be tempted to reply that flags inscribed with Mantras of compassion are a more pleasant and more improving sight

than the drab concrete structures that adorn many cities in the West. As it happens, Tibetans do not suppose that wind or water power will assist them to reach Nirvāza, leaving them free to spend their time in earthy enjoyment, for they are acquainted with the Buddhist teaching that Liberation is the fruit of a one’s own effort. The prayer flags and prayer-mills, set up by people with Mantras constantly on their lips and in their hearts, testify to a sort of spiritual exuberance, to a longing for the whole universe to be full of sounds and symbols inspired by the Dharma, with even the wind and the water contributing to the auspicious mantric dance. Where everything exists in the mind, what is the difference between words that are spoken and words that flutter in the breeze?