Finding the footprints of the Lotus-Born

This essay was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Centre in London

If we had to choose a historical figure that left the greatest imprint on the landscape of Indo-Tibetan Buddhism—next to the historical Buddha himself—very few individuals would be able to compete with the towering greatness of Padmasambhava. This teacher, whose name translates to “Lotus Born” and whom Tibetans affectionately call “Guru Rinpoche” (Precious Guru), is, in actuality, more than a mere individual: he could more appropriately be described as a field, since both his activities and his teachings preserved to this day form a vast and dynamic network that still affects the world in small and large ways. (Beyond that, we could say that each one of us is a field of interdependent phenomena—except Guru Rinpoche was able to turn his phenomena into expressions of enlightenment).

Padmasambhava’s role in the history of Tibetan Buddhism is hard to overestimate. Invited by the king Trison Deutsen and Nālandā scholar Shantarakshita to Tibet as a tantric adept, he famously subjugated the local obstructing forces, trained a bevy of highly qualified tantric practitioners, and transmitted numerous practice cycles that were both preserved orally and hidden for future generations as the so-called “treasure teachings” (terma).

What happened before this period of intense activity (roughly corresponding to the 8th-9th centuries) is a bit of a mystery: it is safe to assume that he spent many years receiving, applying, and realising the teachings of sūtra and tantra, but the specifics of how that occurred are described somewhat differently in his different hagiographies. As a figure associated with the highest degrees of realisation, Padmasambhava is very elusive when it comes to biographic specifics—and extremely vivid when it comes to his teaching legacy and his place in the spiritual life of Buddhist practitioners across the Himalayan region, where he is still invoked daily for help in matters ranging from the safety of cattle to realising enlightenment. One could perhaps say that the footprints of Guru Rinpoche are too numerous for him to fit into a neat, simple, coherent biography; and yet chasing him across time, space, and the Dharma itself is a fascinating journey worth undertaking, at least as a mental (or virtual) experiment.

Guru Rinpoche in time

Guru Rinpoche’s birth is in itself a big mystery. His very name, Padmasambhava, implies that he was miraculously born from a lotus, and some hagiographies indeed describe just that—an emanation of Buddha Amitābha appearing on lake Dhanakosha as a little boy who soon gets discovered and adopted by the local king. Other descriptions, however, talk of Padmasambhava’s physical birth from flesh and blood parents, or describe him miraculously appearing in a different part of India. To summarise it all, in one of Guru Rinpoche’s own treasure teachings (rediscovered by Chokgyur Dechen Lingpa in the XIX century) he states:

Perceived by some, I magically appeared in Uḍḍiyāna,
Upon a lotus flower on the waters of Dhanakośa.
Perceived by others, I was the son of Uḍḍiyāna’s king.
Perceived by still others, I descended as a thunderbolt
Onto the peak of Mount Meteoric Iron.

Guru Rinpoche proceeds to say that this happened 24 years after the passing of Buddha Śākyamuni. As a young man, he also reportedly studied the sutric discourses with Ānanda, the Buddha’s primary attendant. This immediately raises a question: doesn’t that mean that Padmasambhava lived for at least a thousand years, all the way up until the time of King Trisong Deutsen? Well, that is exactly what’s implied. Guru Rinpoche’s pre-Tibetan path includes many episodes, mostly related to study and practice, and one his main achievements, shared with princess Māndārava, is him gaining the realisation of an “awareness holder” (vidyadhara) of immortal life, therefore transcending death and aging. To an academic or someone firmly holding onto the view of reductionist materialism, that idea would only be acceptable as a literary device; to a Buddhist practitioner from the Himalayan region, it’s just a given—why can’t an enlightened being stay in this world longer if needed for the benefit of all beings? While materialistic systems describe the world as built from solid blocks of matter (with no significant role for consciousness, unless we describe it a mere byproduct of the electrical activity of the brain), Padmasambhava’s own view on reality, the Great Perfection, sees the world as a create display of awareness energy: matter is seen as secondary, pristine awareness as primary.

In the years before his realisation of immortality, Padmasambhava was primarily collecting and mastering different cycles of tantric practice, famously studying with the eight vidyadharas of India and with dakini Karmendrani. The following years—or, rather, centuries—were spent perfecting the realisation of those teachings and, on occasion, helping others through miraculous powers (a famous episode involves Guru Rinpoche being invoked by the chanting of the Seven-Life Prayer and saving Nālandā from the black magic of tirthikas).

Eventually, while in Nepal, he received the invitation from king Trisong Deutsen; upon arriving to Tibet, he performed numerous Dharmic activities, participating in the creation of Tibet’s first monastery, Samye, and transmitting numerous cycles of tantric practice. The length of his stay in Tibet is a bit of a mystery as well, sometimes assessed as 55 years and a half.

Although Guru Rinpoche is said to have departed our conventional world at the end of his stay in Tibet, he is still deeply embedded in the cycles of time we go through right now: cyclical time instead of linear. Each 10th lunar day, in particular, is celebrated as a Guru Rinpoche practice festival, associated with one of his many energetic forms and one of his major deeds. This means that there are 12 such days in each year, and this number is further correlated with Padmasambhava’s 12 emanations, with the 12 syllables of his mantra, and with the 12 links of dependent origination that his mantra is said to purify. Because of this, Guru Rinpoche is never relegated to the past: he is believed (following his own promise) to visit our world at least once a month, providing guidance and help to all those who require those and take a moment or two to supplicate him using one of the numerous prayers that he inspired or left behind. In his own words,

For anyone, man or woman, who has faith in me,
I, the Lotus Born, have never gone away — I sleep at their threshold.
When the morning light rays shine and the evening light rays fade,
and also at dawn on the tenth lunar day,
I will always come for the well-being of Tibet.

Guru Rinpoche in space

In addition to leaving numerous footprints in time, Guru Rinpoche has certainly left numerous imprints in space as well, sometimes quite literally: by melting the rocks and imprinting himself on the walls of caves. Modern-day India, especially in Sikkim and Himachal Pradesh, has many places associated with Padmasambhava’s activity or his concealed (and then rediscovered) teachings. Such places are equally present in Bhutan (where one finds the famed Tiger’s Nest) and Nepal (where Guru Rinpoche practiced in charnel grounds and planted the famous bodhi seeds)—and when one gets to Tibet, the holy caves and sites become too numerous to mention.

While there is no pressure for someone to ever visit all of Guru Rinpoche’s holy places—it is quite unlikely that even the greatest master of his own Nyingma lineage were ever able to do so—connecting with one or a few, even from afar, can be highly meaningful. One of the most accessible places in this regard is the Boudhanath stupa in Kathmandu, believed (on the basis of a particular treasure teaching) to be the foundation of the unique karmic connection between Padmasambhava, Trisong Detsen, and Shantarakshita. The treasure version of this stupa’s history describes these three Buddhist masters as having been brothers in their past life—brothers, who, following their mother’s wish, constructed and consecrated the great stupa, dedicating their merit to the future act of bringing the Dharma to the north (to Tibet). For this reason, followers of Tibetan Buddhism see Boudha as the energetic source for their own tradition; that, combined with the fact that Guru Rinpoche practiced in a charnel ground located right next to the stupa, explains why so many holders of Guru Rinpoche’s tradition established their monasteries in the Boudhanath area, easily accessible by anyone visiting Kathmandu.

Guru Rinpoche in the Dharma

What, then, of Guru Rinpoche’s footprints in the domain of Dharmic teachings? One thing worth mentioning is that his very hagiographies serve as a major source of wisdom, so much so that some masters use them as their primary source of literary learning. In his famed autobiography, Blazing Splendour, Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche mentions just such a scholar:

This khenpo, known as Jokyab, was renowned for his literary skills. He later told me that this was due to having studied the extensive biography of the Lotus-Born master, the Golden Garland Chronicle, when he was quite young. “I walked everywhere with that volume slung over my shoulder, and I asked every lama I came across for teachings on different passages.” In this way, he became well-versed in the Buddhist teachings.

Beyond that, however, we have Padmasambhavas’s actual instructions, still preserved and widely practiced to this day. To demonstrate his intellectual mastery of Buddhist tenet systems, Guru Rinpoche at one point penned a brief text called Garland of Views, striking in its ability to build a bridge between the more foundational tenets and the highest view of Great Perfection, which was Padmasambhava’s own primary way of looking at reality. This text is the only composition by Guru Rinpoche that’s preserved in the texts of the kama, or the long-transmission tradition: the texts and teachings that have been preserved and aurally transmitted from the times of Trisong Deutsen until now.

The rest of Padmasambhava’s teachings belong to the treasure (terma) category, and their sheer vastness defies imagination—as does their transformative power, since it is through applying those very teachings that most Nyingma masters to ever achieve the rainbow body have been able to do so. The beauty of these teachings is in how diverse and flexible they are: Guru Rinpoche left behind cycles that take up thousands of pages, but also teachings that only contain a few lines. His more elaborate instructions baffle even the most learned scholars, while his pithy teachings can be applied and understood even by illiterate (but devoted) practitioners who only require one or two short practice liturgies and a few quintessential pointers related to the true nature of reality. Above all, these teachings are extremely practice-oriented, and it is for that reason that they have been quickly gaining popularity in the West.

Receiving Guru Rinpoche’s teachings and practicing them all the way to completion, is, of course, a wonderful way to connect to him and his field of inspiration—perhaps the very best, if that’s where our personal karmic connections lie. However, it’s not the only to build such a connection, since even those who primarily pursue other tantric paths (Kagyu, Sakya or Gelug, for example) have been known to be greatly devoted to the Lotus-Born Guru as an archetypal guru and a yogi par excellence.

Regardless of what we practice (or aspire to practice, if we’re still trying to figure out our contemplative trajectory), the sheer vastness of Padmasambhava’s presence makes him a perfect ancestral figure to look up to and draw inspiration from—a kindly father shared by all the followers of the Indo-Tibetan Buddhist tradition, ready to guide us to greater intelligence when it comes to navigating interdependent reality, and an unpredictable yogi capable of breaking through our rigid ideas. Finding Guru Rinpoche’s footsteps and following them to the source, in one way or another, could be a worthy and a deeply fascinating quest: a quest that could take us all the way back to our basic sanity, with all the qualities of wisdom and compassion dwelling therein.

Additional Links

Guided Meditation: Guru Rinpoche Practice

Padmasambhava Prayer by His Holiness the Dalai Lama

Padmasambhava Prayer for the Fifth Dalai Lama

Evenness, not Indifference

This blogpost was written for the Cultivating Emotional Balance monthly newsletter.

Cultivating and maintaining equanimity is a tough call for many reasons—including the fact that the term itself is somewhat difficult to understand. It does evoke the idea of mental evenness, but how exactly that evenness is supposed to come about is often not quite clear. To make matters worse, this evenness can be misperceived as aloofness or lack of emotion. As a translator, I’ve actually seen “equanimity” being mistranslated into other languages as “indifference”—and what an unhealthy and unrealistic ideal it would then appear to be!

The working definition of equanimity I’ve been introduced to many years ago describes it as a “state of mind that is equally free from neurotic attachment, aversion and indifference”. This state or attitude might be applied to other beings (which translates into equanimity as one of the four virtues of the heart, or the four immeasurables), or towards the different experiences that we have. In either case, what emerges is an image of a person that is profoundly rooted in inner calm and is yet free of aloof insensitivity; responsive and yet centred, warm-hearted and yet not desperately clinging at anything. I find it helpful to play with these words and actually envision equanimity as a quality that I can, through practice, come to embody on a deeper and deeper level. What would a truly evolved and equanimous version of me be like?

The key to equanimity, always implicitly present in equanimity-themed meditations, is wise discernment: discernment of interdependence, discernment of our deeper equality, and, quite importantly, discernment of our ability to both accept the situation (as something that has ripened as a result of multiple causes and conditions) and to continue steering it in the right direction through introducing more of the necessary causes and conditions. Deeply linked to wisdom (“an exceptional level of common sense”, in the words of Sylvia Boorstein), equanimity is a powerful ideal that, sometimes through mere recollection, can help us ground ourselves and continue moving towards greater emotional balance.

Infinite Life and an Enlightened Princess

This article was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Center in London

Nepal is very rich in holy sites—the sheer density of Buddhist and Hindu places of pilgrimage and worship in the Kathmandu valley easily rivals the density of holy sites in Jerusalem. In fact, while walking across the city, one might easily embark on several pilgrimages in a row, visiting the holy places of Vajrayogini, the holy sites of the bodhisattvas, the places of practice associated with Milarepa and Atīśa, and so forth. As one leaves Kathmandu, the holy sites become somewhat more sparse, but that does not affect their importance, since such places as Lumbini (the birthplace of the Buddha) draw numerous pilgrims on an annual basis.

One of the most important pilgrimage sites, located about a day's drive away from the capital, is Maratika—a large cave temple strongly connected to the lifestories of Padmasambhava and his Indian consort princess Mandarava. It was while practicing here that Padmasambhava, in the words of Lama Zopa Rinpoche, "achieved immortal realization, the state of Buddha Amitayus." However, what is that realization, and what did the princess and the guru practice? Is it available to everyone, and what, beyond a trip to Maratika, would it take to tap into that state?

The princess meets the Guru

Mandarava is one of one of the greatest adepts of Indian Buddhism. Although not included in the list of the 84 female and male mahasiddhas (or the greatly accomplished tantricas) of her time, she is believed to have attained some of the most incredible states of realization, including a transcendent state beyond physical death. The beginning of her story, however, is quite typical: much like Atisha, Yeshe Tsogyal, and the Buddha himself, she came from a royal family and developed an acute interest in spirituality at an early age.

By the age of 13 she grew to be so beautiful that many princes were vying for her attention. Refusing to choose a husband, she pleaded with her father, king Vihardhara, to be allowed to practice the Dharma, and eventually was allowed to receive vows of ordination from the great abbot Shantarakshita (the very same one who also brought monastic ordination, Madhyamaka philosophy, and the practices of lower tantras to Tibet).

Practicing with her fellow nuns (as her attendants), Mandarava spent a few years in a state of peace and serenity. However, in order to progress towards actual realization, she still needed a skilful guru. Due to a karmic connection to Padmasambhava, who by then was already very firmly established on the path of Vajrayāna practice, the great adept miraculously appeared in her chambers. Taking him as a teacher, the princess and her attendants received the necessary empowerments and oral instructions, practicing under the direct guidance of Guru Rinpoche. Due to Mandarava's high level of yogic mastery, she eventually also became Padmasambhava's practice partner—but when the yogi was accidentally seen in her chambers by a passer by, a scandal ensued. On the orders of the kingly father, Padmasambhava was soon arrested and brought to a stake to be burnt. Using his powers, he, instead of burning, transformed the whole scene into a cool lake, now known as Tso Pema—another important place of pilgrimage these days, not too far from Dharamsala. Having thus convinced the king of the authenticity of their practice and realization, Guru Rinpoche and Mandarava left the kingdom and went to the territory of modern Nepal to meditate there.

While abiding in retreat in Maratika, the Guru and the princess performed advanced Vajrayana practices and eventually received a direct vision of Buddha Āmitāyus, whose name (Āmitāyus in Sanskrit, Tsepame in Tibetan) literally means "Infinite Life". Through this, the indwelling qualities of boundless longevity were awakened, and the two gained perfect mastery over their lifespan and bodily energy. It is this accomplishment that accounts both for Guru Rinpoche's legendary lifespan (his activities in Indian and Tibet reportedly span multiple centuries) and for his teachings on life-extending and life-protecting practices, including those of Buddha Āmitāyus himself.

Today, most lineages that have a connection to Guru Rinpoche's Nyingma tradition have one or several practices for Amitayus, often used to stabilise once's longevity and improve one's health in order to be able to practice the Dharma and benefit sentient beings. The same practices are often also used to pray for the long life of one's spiritual teachers and, in some cases, also benefactors. The aspiration is always twofold: provisionally, to attain a long and stable life to practice virtue; ultimately, to realise the fully enlightened state of Āmitāyus, knowing that the actual immortal life is enlightenment itself.

Amitayus comes to the new translation schools

How did the practices of Āmitāyus  come into the new translation schools (of Sakya, Kagyu, and Gelug), then? This is where princess Mandarava, who is believed by Buddhists to still be very much alive in India, comes back to the scene. When the great yogi Milarepa sent his student Rechungpa to India, the latter first sought out some advanced tantric practices associated with dakinis. However, while he was receiving those, a wild-looking traveling yogi predicted that Rechungpa would soon die unless he receives a powerful life-extending practice from a realized master. Rechungpa was led to the great female adept, known by then as "Machig Drubpei Gyalmo" —literally "the single mother Realized Queen". This adept, whose Sanskrit name could be rendered as Siddharajni, is, once again, believed by some to be Mandarava herself (indeed, who would have a greater understanding of Amitayus practices?) Upon Rechungpa's request, she taught him the advanced yogas of Amitayus, and he, having applied those, was able to ward off untimely death. Rechungpa was eventually also able to offer the practice to his own teacher Milarepa, and it was through Milarepa that these methods eventually came to the new translation traditions, including Gelug.

The new translation schools still maintain a transmission of these yogas, and many beautiful ways to transmit and maintain these practices have gradually evolved. For instance, in the Drikung Kagyu tradition, an empowerment of Amitayus is often transmitted during the so-called "Monkey Year Teachings" which happen every 12 years. While receiving the long-life practices of Amitayus, people are also introduced to his other aspect—Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Life who presides over the pure land of Sukhavati, or the Land of Great Bliss. In learning these two sets of practices, practitioners receive a wonderful combination of methods: some to extend one's life and some to ensure a wonderful liberating rebirth in a pure dimension perfectly suitable for progressing towards enlightenment. Since these teachings are traditionally combined with a majestic ceremony for receiving (or strengthening) one's bodhisattva precepts, a firm Mahayana foundation for practice is thus established, and the more technical methods are to be used in order to quickly become a Buddha for the benefit of all who live.

Amitabha and Amitayus

The relationship between Amitayus (the Buddha of Infinite Life) and Amitabha (the Buddha of Infinite Light) is quite fascinating, from a Dharmic and from an academic point of view. In most of the more recent texts of the Tibetan tradition these buddhas are largely equated to each other (as two forms of the same buddha), or are at least described as two facets of the same enlightened principle, or buddha-family; as such, they are both strongly associated with the pure dimension Sukhāvatī. There are, however, earlier sources, in which they appear to be fairly separate—manifesting in different dimensions and for somewhat different purposes.

For instance, one of the main Indian texts associated with Amitayus is the Sutra of Infinite Life and Wisdom, commonly referred to as Tsedo ("Longevity Sutra"). This text, which the Kangyur actually lists as a tantra (despite having the word "sutra" in the name) is often printed in huge quantities to create auspiciousness for someone's long life; in many cases it is also used for recitation practices open to everyone. In the sutra, the historical Buddha describes the qualities of a glorious buddha by the name of Aparimitāyus (Infinite Life and Wisdom), teaching his dharani (the sutric equivavelnt of a mantra) and extolling the benefits of reciting it along with the benefits of preserving the sutra itself. This buddha, whose name was also translated into Tibetan as Tsepame, is said to have his own pure land and his own set of beautiful qualities, accessible through veneration, meditation, and the recitation of his dharani. Another Tsepame—the one associated with Sukhāvatī and Amitābha—is described in another sūtra.

Over time, the Āmitāyus of Sukhāvatī and the Aparimitāyus of the Sūtra of Infinite Life and Wisdom fully merged—something not unheard of in the Buddhist tradition, where multiple expressions of enlightenment sometimes merge into one, and one expression of enlightenment suddenly projects itself into numerous forms. By the 16th century, if not earlier, the dividing lines fully disappeared, and the dharani from Tsedo became firmly associated with the unified Tsepame that grants both longevity and a connection to the pure land of Sukhāvatī. This, in turn, led to a very firm bond between the unified Āmitāyus and Buddha Amitābha. In some systems of practice, they even transform into each other over the course of a specific meditation, and it is common for both of them together to be described as the lord of the lotus family of buddhas, to which Tara, Avalokiteśvara, and Guru Rinpoche also belong. As such, Āmitāyus-Amitābha represents the specific qualities of this family (such as enlightened speech, discriminating wisdom, the purified element of fire, and so on), while also standing for the totality of enlightenment itself—and, of course, for the eponymous qualities of infinite life and infinite light.

Calling on these buddhas with a pure motivation and seeing them as windows into our own true potential is seen as a powerful way of cultivating virtue. Of course, the specific form of practice one performs depends on the transmissions and teachings one has received, along with one’s personal inclinations—reading the root sūtra with a motivation of bodhicitta is a good beginning, and a profusion of more advanced yogic methods associated with Āmitāyus and/or Amitābha can later be mastered under the guidance of a skilful teacher. These the practices are believed to be a full package for progressing towards enlightenment, both in this very life and beyond. If long life comes as byproduct of our meditations, we can then use it for more cultivation and to be of greater benefit to others—following in the footsteps of Princess Māndārava, still believed to be patiently sharing her realisation and the blessings of Āmitāyus somewhere in the plains, valleys, and hills of India.

Additional links

Lama Zopa Rinpoche’s advice on visualisations to do while reciting the mantra of Āmitāyus

An alternative translation of Tsedo

Āmitāyus image from Himalayan Art Resources (HAR 367)

Seeking True Wealth: On Interdependence and Jambhala Practice

This article was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Center in London

When Westerners learn of the existence of the so-called “wealth deities” in Buddhism, double confusion ensues. "Wealth? Deities? I thought that Buddhism is all about renunciation and is a non-theistic tradition!” At the same time, there are also always people who get highly excited, thinking that with a little bit of Buddhist wealth magic all of their financial problems would be dispelled, and a period of perpetual good luck will finally follow.

The Buddhist path is that of the middle way, or balance: identifying the two possible extremes and slipping carefully between them. Long before the Middle Way philosophy was fully outlined by Nāgārjuna and his followers, the principle of the middle way was already taught in the Buddha’s own life story, when, receiving rice pudding from Sujata, he realised that neither the extreme of ascetic self-mortification nor the extreme of wild self-gratification are wise. The true path of balance and prudence was right there between the two.

What, then, to make of the issues of wealth and of the deities that are supposed to assist in obtaining it? The central teaching of Buddhism is arguably that of interdependence, and a large part of interdependence is the principle of causality. Wealth, along with all the other things we tend to label as good and desirable, is therefore seen to be coming from merit, or the accumulation of positive force: essentially, our good karma that ripens as our ability to get what we desire. Equally, the absence of wealth could come from the absence of merit, or from our merit not ripening in the way that we desire. Major obstacles to having wealth, including financial mishaps of any kind, would normally come from our negative karmic imprints. It is in this complex interplay that we find ourselves trying to navigate the complex issues of survival and flourishing within saṃsāra.

At this intersection, another common Western concern arises: isn’t wealth a part of saṃsāra, by definition, and a chain that yokes us to the contaminated form of existence? Not in and by itself. A famous pith instruction, given by the great yogi Tilopa to his student Naropa, says “My child, it is not appearances that bind you, it is grasping, so cut through your attachment.” Abundance itself is merely an appearance—a potentially helpful one, for without it we’d find it hard to practice the perfection of generosity. It is grasping at this resource and exaggerating its ability to bring lasting happiness that is seen as a problem. Transforming our grasping attitude through mind training is a working strategy for building a healthy relationship with wealth (however large or humble)—which we can then start to skilfully procure, and then use in our practice of generosity.

Great examples of this attitude are abundantly present throughout Buddhist history, from the early Buddhist kings who served as the Buddha’s own benefactors, to modern-day communities throughout the Himalayan region chipping in with whatever they can to restore or erect the holy objects. Similar things happen across the globe, where, for example, efforts to create learning or medical facilities and run educational and translation programs are generously sponsored by the kindness of many. Obtaining some wealth (even if it’s just a few pounds) and then using it to multiply goodness in the world is the most intelligent way to use the material resources, once our basic needs have been fulfilled. Additionally, wealth in the Indo-Tibetan tradition is never described as merely material: there’s also the inner wealth of positive qualities and the secret wealth of enlightened wisdom. Letting all the outer, inner, and secret abundance unfold for oneself and, eventually, for all sentient beings is an aspiration that lies at the heart of many prosperity-related Buddhist practices.

What, then, of wealth deities? If outer abundance flows from merit—in this case, merit mostly created through the different types of generosity—why would one need additional figures to serve as an intermediary? Once again, the answer lies with the principle of interdependence. In the Buddhist working hypothesis, realised and non-realised beings can affect the flow of causality. Essentially, we all affect it, either directly or indirectly—yet some of us, due to having cultivated ourselves, have a greater influence on the events that ripen and occur. It is generally believed that some beings have a closer connection to the principle of abundance, being able to provide certain assistance to those who need prosperity for enacting greater good. This group of beings is collectively known as the “wealth deities”, or norlha in Tibetan.

Wealth deities are a rather diverse crowd. Some of them, like Jambhala and Vasudhara are seen as expressions of fully enlightened Buddhas. Some, like Orgyen Norlha and Kyechok Tsulzang (both forms of Guru Rinpoche), are manifestations of the greatly realised masters of the past. Others belong to the class of realised Dharma protectors, and yet others are seen as worldly beings who are somewhat aligned with the Dharma but have not yet mastered their own minds fully. Among these beings we also find such popular figures as Lakshmi (whose qualities and assistance are described in a few sutras, including the Sūtra of the Golden Light), Ganapati, White Mahakala and many others.

Would a truly qualified spiritual practitioner busy themselves with invoking the energetic influence of wealth deities? The life stories of the great masters allow us to answer in the affirmative. Even the founder of the Gelug tradition, Je Tsongkhapa himself, at one point famously turned to the assistance of Vaiśravaṇa (one of the four directional kings and a popular abundance-related protector) when working to restore an important holy object for the benefit of all sentient beings:

Tsongkhapa and his companions performed the rites of Vaiśravaṇa, an important god of wealth in the Buddhist pantheon. That very day, a young monk came to offer them a chunk of butter, which they used as part of the ritual offering. Strangely, the next day, a group of nomads came to offer the small community of meditators a multitude of wrapped bundles of butter. Then, as if floodgates had been opened, many people came to make offerings of various gifts, and within a short time they had the necessary funds to pay the artists. In fact, many artists came from the Yarlung area to volunteer their services to this restoration project.

(From Thubten Jinpa’s Tsongkhapa: A Buddha in the Land of Snows)

Of course, we can safely assume that Tsongkhapa’s practice of a wealth deity was deeply informed by his understanding of interdependence, including that of karmic causes and conditions. This means that the practice was used as a cooperative condition for activating the merit of generosity created previously, and that the overarching motivation for the act was genuinely cultivated bodhicitta. It’s within this framework of interdependence and bodhicitta that the skilful methods of Vajrayāna, including those associated with wealth deities, are usually found.

One of the wealth deities most commonly practiced in the Tibetan tradition is Jambhala (often pronounced as “Dzambhala”, following the Tibetan pronunciation of the original Sanskrit), whose additional epithets include such names as Mugdzin (which can be roughly translated as “Upholder of Fogginess”), Norgyi Wangchuk (“Lord of Wealth”) and Chugyi Thubpa (“Mighty One of Water”). Jambhala, strictly speaking, is not a single deity, but rather a class of deities or a principle (much like Mahakala, who is not a single protector but a large group of diverse beings). Different Jambhala forms are described as expressions of the one of the five buddha families, which places them fairly close to the fully-fledged meditational deities (yidams) that are used to attain enlightenment. In this regard, Jambhalas stand apart from some other wealth deities that are seen as worldly or mundane.

Much like with the fully-fledged yidams, in some practices practitioners would be invited to imagine themselves as Jambhala himself, voicing his mantra and integrating a vision of boundless abundance with the view of emptiness and luminosity. Some of the more basic Jambhala methods, however, entail a separation between the practitioner and the wealth deity. In the more advanced ones, one invites the mandala of Jambhala (which can consist of a single deitiy or of a large retinue) into the space in front and then proceeds to make prayers and offerings. Some of the more basic methods, however, include a statue of Jambhala to which water is offered: this is both an act of generosity and a sweet reference to  the story about Jambhala protecting the Buddha from Devadatta’s stones and getting bruised in the process.

The different forms of Jambhala are currently often classified according to colour, although in technical terms, each one of them originates from a different tantric cycle, some belonging to action tantra and some related to such highest yoga tantra systems as Guhyasamāja, Kālacakra and Chakrasamvara. It is only later that they also start getting depicted together, either as a group of five or as a part of a larger retinue—for example, accompanying Padmasambhava in his abundance-related forms.

The five main color-reated categories of Jambhala forms in the new translation schools are as follows:

• Yellow Jambhala: Seen as an emanation of Buddha Ratnasambhava, this seated form is depicted as holding a citron fruit and a mongoose. This is the most common aspect of Jambhala amongst all the traditions, with multiple practices associated with it: from water and incense offerings to elaborate tantric sadhanas.

• White Jambhala: This form, depicted as riding a dragon and accompanied by four dakinis (thus also named “five-deity Jambhala”), is described as an emanation of Avalokiteśvara that manifested in response to Atisha’s passionate wish to bring abundance to all beings. As such, it is a “pure vision” teaching that presumably came into Tibet with Atīśa and eventually spread to all of the new translation traditions.

• Green Jambhala: An emanation of Buddha Amoghasiddhi, this form is accompanied by goddess Vasudhara (“Stream of Wealth”) as its consort. Its practice comes from the Kālacakra cycle of teachings.

• Red Jambhala: The most common Red Jambhala form, described as an emanation of Buddha Amitābha, comes from the Cakrasamvara cycle of teachings; it came to Tibet through the lineage of Mahasiddha Virupa, the great progenitor of Sakya teachings. In the Sakya tradition, this practice is transmitted as one of the Thirteen Golden Dharmas—the precious tantric methods that were transmitted together as a precious trove of powerful methods.

• Black Jambhala forms are diverse, but most of them are depicted as standing and extremely wrathful. Having arrived to Tibet through the lineages of Jetari and Sakya Sri, Black Jambhala is seen as an emanation of the Buddha Akshobhya.

In addition to these forms (and each colour category can actually include many distinct methods and figures), which have become an integral part of the new translation tantric lineages, there are many Jambhala practices of Nyingma origin, most of them related to the traditions of revealed treasures (terma) and pure visions (dagnang). In some, Jambhala appears as a supportive deity; in others, he is seen as an expression of Padmasambhava’s skilful compassionate energy. Regardless of which practice we use, the important point is to combine genuine transmission (received along with instructions from a skilled lineage holder) with a genuine combination of wisdom and compassion. Seeing the union of emptiness and interdependence helps us navigate our conventional reality (where matters of poverty and wealth unfold) with grace and ease, while the aspiration of bodhicitta guides us towards the ultimate goal of true wealth–full enlightenment for all sentient beings. Until that ultimate goal has been achieved, we can continue inviting the enlightening influence of Jambhala with the words like that of the non-sectarian Tibetan master Khyentse Chokyi Lodro:

Pacify disharmony and adversity for us, teacher and disciples.
Eliminate turmoil and disease among people and livestock,
Let all countries and regions be filled with happiness and joy,
And bring the increased wealth and prosperity of a golden age.

Additional Links

Lama Zopa Rinpoche on what it takes to make Jambhala practice effective

Video: Himalayan Art Resources on the iconography of Jambhala

Image of Jambhala from Himalayan Art Resources (HAR 34960)

Tara and her assembly of stars

This article was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Centre in London

The first thing you see when entering the left wing of the Jamyang Buddhist Center in London is a majestic, well-illuminated painting of Green Tara surrounded by the 21 Taras. At least, those would be the terms one would apply to the image if one is already somewhat familiar with Himalayan Buddhist iconography; otherwise, it would most likely seem to simply be a dignified array of multi-colored goddesses (or fairies, maybe)—something that many people that I’ve spoken to seem to be attracted by regardless of their philosophical and contemplative background.

Why would such figures be mysteriously alluring is a question that can’t be easily answered unless we first choose a specific coordinate system. Researchers of archetypes and mythology, like Carl Jung and his intellectual descendants, might try to find the universal roots of our attraction to Tara and Tara-like figures in either our shared past or in our collective unconscious.

Himalayan Buddhism, by contrast, generally attributes such attraction to our extended personal history (that transcends a specific lifetime and stretches infinitely into the past and into the future), and, more importantly, to our own basic goodness—our buddha nature that the figure of Tara so powerfully represents. Those who strongly espouse the more literal interpretations of the Buddha-nature theory (which is not viewed in the same way in the different traditions of Tibetan Buddhism) might argue that Tara attracts us because she represents the perfection that already dwells within us; others, following a more gradualist approach, would see Tara as an expression of the qualities that we possess as a potential that still needs to be cultivated: an acorn that might one day become a strong oak tree. In either case, Tara herself is both a symbolic representation of the eventual achievement and a meditational deity that serves as the path taking us to that goal. Metaphorically speaking (and borrowing an apt expression from Thomas Merton, who applied this image to Mother Mary), Tara serves as a window to something infinitely more refined and beautiful.

While there are certainly many such windows in the Indo-Tibetan tradition—many meditational deities to practice with—Tara has gradually become a particularly popular figure, most likely turning into an object of mass devotion by the 6th century CE. The reason for her popularity is expressed by her very name. In Sanskrit and some other Indic languages, “Tara” means “a star” (in fact, the English word “star” comes from the same Indo-European root); in this context, Tara is like a guiding star taking one across the ocean of samsaric suffering. When translating the Dharma into their own language, Tibetans, however, decided to ignore the obvious primary meaning and rather focused on the meaning of the root “tṝ” – “to help someone to cross”, or “to rescue”. Tara’s Tibetan name, “Drolma”, therefore literally means “The Saviouress” or “The Rescuer”, and she is seen as a presence–a field of qualities—that rescues one from temporary suffering, and, most importantly, from the causes of that suffering: one’s karma and afflictions.

From an academic point of view, the origins of Tara practice are somewhat of a mystery. Since the first Tara texts emerge in the 5th century CE, it is hard to say whether the roots lie firmly with Buddhism itself or are shared with either Brahmanism, or, perhaps, the early tantric cults of Southern India. Tara herself as a tantric goddess is present in both Buddhist and Hindu pantheons; in the latter, she is listed amongst the 10 Mahavidyas (“Great Awareness Goddesses”), and the roots of her practice, according to Robert Svoboda, seem to be strongly connected to the northern part of the Indian Subcontinent (and potentially even Tibet). While lacking solid archeological or textual evidence to support any of these  theories (along with the more daring ones that potentially connect Tara to other Indo-European goddesses with similar names, like Astharta and Ishtar), we have to look at the root texts of Tara practice themselves. Those at least give us a clear understanding of how Tara practice arrived to Tibet, where it has been truly flourishing every since.

Some of the earliest mentions of Tara come from texts connected to Mañjuśrī (the embodiment of enlightened wisdom), Avalokiteśvara (the embodiment of enlightened compassion), and Amitābha (the buddha of infinite light). Appearing first as a secondary expression of Avalokiteśvara’s compassionate activity, Tara eventually becomes the primary figure for a number of her own texts, including Tara Mula Kalpa and The Tantra on the Origin of All Rites of Tara. It is in this latter text, which mostly deals with the ritual aspects of Tara practice (thus being categorised as an action tantra in the Kangyur), that we first see the seminal text known colloquially as the Twenty-One Praises to Tara (or, quite incorrectly, The Praise to the Twenty-One Taras). While translating the root text into Tibetan (which most likely happened in the 11th century), Dharma translators of the Land of Snows preserved the Sanskrit of the original verses. However, to make the meaning of the praise accessible, they also extracted the praise and translated it as another, separate text included in the Kangyur. Interestingly enough, the praise itself (unlike the text that it originated from) is classified a highest yoga tantra text: something extremely esoteric and profound, and potentially opening the doors to full awakening in one lifetime. This shows the multiplicity layers embedded into the systems of Tara practice. The same root text can serve as one of the most popular prayers, known by heart by Tibetan children and elders alike; as a part of a more ritual-oriented system of practice; and, finally, as a treasury of secret meditation instructions that can only be understood under the guidance of a highly qualified teacher.

The text of the Twenty-One Praises serves as the basis for all the iconographic depictions of the 21 forms of Tara—thus the misnomer of “Praise to the 21 Taras”. It’s important to know that the root text does not have to be seen as an homage directed towards 21 distinct forms; all the verses describe and praise Tara, in her totality, herself (and, from a certain point of view, also our own basic goodness, or true potential). However, certain lineage masters, starting with either with Nāgārjuna or with the Kashmiri pandit Suryagupta (7th century), eventually started associating each verse with a specific form of Tara that serves as the basis for one’s practice when needed. This lead to the establishment of the multiply ways of describing the 21 Taras, each with its own distinct iconography, mantras, and elaborate systems of meditation instructions. Five systems remain particularly influential today and are still transmitted and practiced: those of Suryagupta, Atīśa, Sadhana-samuccaya, Jigme Lingpa and Chokgyur Lingpa. There are more systems that are less widespread, and some of the main five have additional sub-brunches, making it all somewhat confusing and extremely diverse – “How many Taras do we really need? Am I supposed to learn and practice all of that?” Well, no, or at least not necessarily: all of the forms are understood to be the refractions of Tara’s light, and the main form that serves as the root for all this multiplicity is the famous Green Tara (Śyāmatārā).

Green Tara herself is potentially extremely interesting, both to a historian and to a practitioner. This aspect of Tara is closely associated with the “Tara of the Acacia Forest”, or Khadiravani-Tara: a form presumably coming from a visionary experience of Nāgārjuna, but deeply relevant in today’s world that seems to desperately need the environmental awareness that the Buddhist Dharma can offer. Beyond her role as a forest-abiding goddess (whose pure land is aptly and enticingly called “The Array of Turquoise Laves”), Tara has other strong connections to the natural world and its elements. For example, when appearing as a secondary figure in such practice cycles as Guhyasamāja-Tantra, Green Tara (assuming the name of Samayatara there) becomes an expression of the purified element of air/wind, representing movement; her green color becomes a symbol of fast activity. According to professor James Apple, who in this case is quoting from the 8th century translator Buddhaguhya, green is to be seen as a mixture of white, blue, and yellow, representing the unification of the pacifying, multiplying, and subjugating enlightened activities.

From Green Tara as a source – the root of all Taras associated with the 21 Praises – other Taras appear as secondary refractions. In the system of Atīśa (based, most likely, on his own unique visionary experiences and realisations) all of these have the same position with the right leg extended and left bent in; all have two arms and one face. What differs is the color of their body and the color of the vase they hold in their right hand—along with the associated activity and “activity mantra” (which is used by an initiated adept to invoke the activity of the specific aspect into our shared field of interdependence).

Here are the names, colours, and activities of the 21 Taras in Atisha’s lineage:

Sanskrit names are given on the basis of Dr. Apple’s research into Aisha’s writings, while the English names are given in accordance with the Zurkha Gyatsa transmission system. There is a slight discrepancy between the two, showing the complexity of how these teachings develop and get transmitted.

1 Name: Tārā who is Quick and Heroic
Sanskrit name: Ārya Tārā
Color: Red

2 Tārā who is Greatly Peaceful
Sitatārā
White

3 The Golden Tārā / Increasing Tārā
Kanakavarņa Tārā
Gold

4 Tārā the Victorious Crown Protuberance
Uṣṇīṣavijaya Tārā
Gold

5 Tārā Proclaiming the Sound of Hum
Hūṃsvaranādinī Tārā
Orange (or golden-red)

6 Tārā Victorious Over The Three Worlds
Trailokya-Vijaya Tārā
Dark red

7 Tārā Destroying Others’ Strength
Vādiprardaka Tārā
Black

8 Tārā Destroying Evil Spirits and Enemies
Mārasūdana Vaśittamadatārā
Dark red

9 Tārā Doing the Mudra of the Three Jewels
Ārya Tārā Triratnamudrāṅka
White

10 Tārā who is the Power That Destroys and Frightens Evil Spirits
Māralokavaśaṃkari
Red

11 Tārā Who Summons, Thus Eliminating Misfortune
Vasudhārā Tārā
Orange (Or golden-red)

12 Tārā Creating All Auspiciousness
Sarvakalyānada Tārā
Gold

13 Tārā of Blazing Fire
Hutabhug-Jvālā-Tara
Red

14 Tārā Who Frowns
Bhṛkuṭī Tārā
Black

15 Tārā Who Is Great Peace
Mahāśānti Tārā
White

16 Tārā Liberating Through the Awareness Letter HŪM
Vadyāhūṃkāradīpita Tārā
White

17 Tārā Who Makes the Three Worlds Tremble
Bhūvanatrayacālinī Tārā
Orange (red-gold)

18 Tārā Pacifying Poison and Disease
Aśeṣavișanāśani Tārā
Red

19 Tārā Dispelling Conflict and Nightmares
Duḥkhadahana Tārā
White

20 Tārā Eliminating Contagious Disease
Viṣamajvaranāśani Tārā
Orange

21 Tārā Who Fully Accomplishes All Activity
Paripuraņa Tārā
White

If one feels a natural interest towards Tara and her multiple forms (including those presented by Atīśa), what would be a good way to deepen that connection? Of course, acquiring a foundational understanding of Atīśa’s teachings—particularly on the graduated path (lamrim) and mind-training (lojong) is a great start. A lot of inspiration can also be be gained by looking into Atīśa’s own life and his compositions, presented brilliantly in James Apple’s book Illuminator of the Awakened Mind (which includes some of Atīśa’s praises to Tara).

More practical foundational instructions on Tara can be found in a wonderful article by Lama Zopa Rinpoche and in Venerable Thubten Chodron’s book How To Free Your Mind. The latter includes a commentary on the 21 Praises (albeit more associated with Suryagupta’s tradition than with Atīśa’s).

Finally, a powerful way to explore Tara’s influence is to open up to her iconography and enjoy the colours and shapes associated with enlightenment. The Himalayan Art Resources center has a wealth of Tara images and statues to explore, along with a specific section on the 21 Taras of Atīśa and a number of explanation videos.

In short, by making tiny steps towards Tara as a window to our own highest potential, we can certainly hope that our aspirations for the benefit of all beings and the healing of the world will gradually be fulfilled.

Note: Contrary to a common misconception, the famous form of White Tara with seven eyes (White Tara of the Wish-Fulfilling Wheel, popular in the Gelug, Sakya and Kagyu traditions) does not belong to the group of the 21 Taras; teachings on her practice come from a completely separate lineage that originates with the master Vāgīśvarakīrti, although it does also pass through Atīśa (amongst others).

In addition to White Tara, Green Tara and the Twenty-One Taras, there are also groupings of Three Taras, Eight Taras (associated with the dispelling of the eight great fears), Seven Taras (originating in the vision of Kyobpa Jigten Sumgon, who established the Drikung Kagyu tradition), 108 Taras, and so on. To quote Tina Fey’s Mean Girls, “The limit does not exist!”

Windhorse and the energy of good fortune

This article was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Center in London

One of the sights fairly ubiquitous in the Tibetan Buddhist world—and these days, also in New Age stores and yoga studies of every kind—is the sight of the Buddhist prayers flags. Surprisingly, these colourful flags made of fabric are visually similar to the Mexican papel picado, the main difference being that the latter are made from paper. Both types of flags are displayed on different celebratory occasions and are meant to transform the environment—and the ambience—in different ways, bringing feelings of joy, aliveness and celebration to everyone who sees them.

Tibetan prayer flags, are, indeed, Tibetan in origin; unlike some other aspects of the Himalayan Buddhist ritual culture, they did not come from India, and their historical roots are firmly plated in the indigenous spiritual traditions of the Tibetan plateau itself. The proper name for these prayer flags is lungta (pronounced as “loong-ta”), translated most often as “wind horse”. In the Wylie system for transliterating Tibetan, this would be spelled as rlung rta – rta for “horse”, “rlung” for wind. However, certain experts in ancient Tibetan culture, including Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche and Raven Cypress-Wood, point out that the earlier, original spelling of the term was most likely klung rta; this difference does not affect the pronunciation, but changes the meaning of the word to “the horse of space”, or, alternatively, “the horse of good fortune”.

Whichever of these three primary translations we rely on, the overall symbolism remains the same—the horse in question is a symbol of the transformative energy that can turn negativity into something positive, enlivening all the excellent aspects of our being.

Animals and elements

On the outer level, lungta is associated with a mythical horse-like creature, which, for the Buddsist tradition, came to be seen as Balaha—the king of horses and an emanation of Avalokiteśvara.

While this noble horse itself (iconographically bearing a jewel on its back) represents the element of space, its four mythical companions, known as the “four dignities”—a dragon, a garuda, a snow lion, and a tiger—symbolise the remaining four elements. These five are often collectively depicted on prayer flags, with the horse in the center and the other four in the corners. This, along with the fact that most prayers flags use all five of the elemental colours—blue, white, yellow, red, and green—shows the powerful connection between lungta-related practices and the natural world.

In Tibetan astrology and medical system, strings of prayer flags are sometimes used to strengthen the specific element that seems to be temporarily weakened, either in terms of one’s birth chart or with regards to one’s specific health-related issues. One tradition is to hang up the flags in the color of one’s natal element (which depends on the specific lunar year one was born in) whenever that element is seen as being endangered—especially in one’s “obstacle year” (the year of the same animal one’s birth year was associated with – Tiger, Dragon, Rabbit, and so on). Hanging up strings of flags that have all the five primary colours is said to strengthen and balance all the elements, creating positive interdependence for health and longevity in general.

A fairly common explanation of the reason for hanging prayer flags is also connected with their ability to bless the natural elements, therefore bringing benefit to all who would later be touched by the gusts of the blessed wind, the drops of the blessed rain water, and so on. To perform this function, the flags would most often be covered with mantras and prayers that are considered to be especially potent in terms of blessing beings and creating positive interdependence. This is one of the reasons for why prayer flags are ideally to be hanged in a location that’s open to the elements—on high hills, between tall trees, or at least on balconies and ledges where wind and rain are actually accessible.

Because the earlier Tibetan term eventually evolved into “wind-horse”, it also acquired particularly powerful associations with the element of wind, or air, defined as “that which moves”. While the outer wind—actual gusts of air—is that which carries the blessings of lungta to all sentient beings, it’s the inner wind that is primarily meant here: the nervous energy, or prana, circulating within our subtle energetic body. The windhorse itself came to be associated with this moving energy, and that which it carries—symbolically depicted as a jewel—is the mind. This comparison of energy being like a horse and the mind being like a rider is commonly used in the Tibetan Buddhist teachings on our energetic makeup and subtle anatomy. When one’s subtle energies are harmonised and are flowing smoothly (which is described as one’s “windhorse being strong”), the mind experiences harmony and finds it easy to connect to its true nature. Strengthening this energetic balance, and activating the positive winds of wisdom (as opposed to the afflictive karmic winds which bring suffering and drama) is one more reason for why prayer flags, symbolising lungta, are put up to create positive interdependence.

Windhorse, brilliance, and “field of power”

While the mythological king of horses is said to be the outer level of lungta’s symbolism, the elemental energy and the subtle energies of prana correspond to the secret and extremely secret levels, respectively. Between the outer and the secret lies the inner level, where lungta is interpreted as a combination of all the positive qualities: excellence, abundance, good fortune, vitality, creativity and so on. It is said that when one’s lungta is strong, these positive qualities naturally manifest—but its also true that lungta is just a label applied to the combination of all these positive things to make them easier to contemplate.

Connected to this concept of dynamic goodness are two more terms that play in important role in the Tibetan cultural tradition—in particular, in the Nyingma lineage stemming from the teachings of Guru Padmasambhava and his spiritual heirs. One of these concepts is that of wangtang, literally translated as “field of power”. Wantang refers to a magnetic aura born from our merit and positive qualities. A person whose lungta is strong would naturally have certain magnetism which has nothing to do with manipulation or putting up a facade. Rather, it comes from the uninterrupted flow of positive qualities stemming from one’s basic goodness.

The second concept is that of ziji, which literally means “brilliance”. Ziji is the energetic quality felt in those who possess strong lungta and wangtang; it is most noticeable in spiritual practitioners who have worked on themselves to the point of becoming brilliant, even when their outer appearance is completely unassuming.

Teachings and theories related to lungta–as the energy of goodness–along with wangtang and ziji are meant to inspire our mind. It’s as if we are invited to consider: What would my life feel like if, through spiritual practice, I was able to strengthen the qualities of good fortune, excellence, dynamic creativity and inner abundance? How could those qualities shine through my outer identity to convey the energy of magnetism and brilliance? How could all of it help me serve the world and sentient beings? As we consider these points, we might feel inspired to do more practice—including the specific spiritual practices related to “raising lungta”, or strengthening the energy of our goodness.

Lungta practices

Incidentally, the word “lungta” itself also applies to a wide range of practices related to windhorse energy and its qualities. Many of these methods are not related to actually putting up physical prayer flags; rather, they teach us to work with our own energy and qualities directly.

One of the simplest practices in this category is a victorious exclamation that can often be heard in the Himalayan region, used by Tibetan and Bhutanese practitioners—the victorious cry “Ki Ki So So Lha Gyal Lo” (which roughly translates into “May the divine forces by victorious!”). This formula is often embedded into lungta-related practices, and is also proclaimed when crossing high mountain passes. Some practitioners even use to conclude any session of teaching and practice, reaffirming their own basic goodness and the overall flow of auspiciousness. The full instruction for this invites us to direct our gaze towards the open sky, to let our awareness merge with the boundlessness of space, and then to forcefully proclaim the words themselves, imagining that our windhorse energy rises limitlessly.

Other lungta practices take the form of short or elaborate prayers, written by such famous Tibetan masters as Patrul Rinpoche and Mipham Rinpoche. Some of these prayers would actually be printed on prayer flags, or used to consecrate them after the flags have been hanged. Quite often, a lungta prayer would include a meditation on the symbolism of windhorse, an offering practice of sorts, and then some powerful aspirations for goodness. Occasionally, mantras that multiply auspiciousness would also be recited—such is the case with the daily lungta practice that was composed by Ju Mipham.

While some lungta prayers are focused on Tara (who, in her green form, is herself a symbol of the purified air element), a lot of them have to do with another transcendent figure—that of mythological king Gesar, the hero of Tibet’s primary epic tale that spans numerous volumes (when put to writing). Gesar, whose historicity is debated (Gendun Chophel famously did not believe in it), is seen as an archetypal, heroic emanation of Guru Rinpoche, meant to teach us about the qualities of lungta, wangtang and ziji. Riding a horse and accompanied by heroic drala beings (who are not unlike the Celtic aes sídhe), Gesar is celebrated both as a Dharma protector and as an archetypal teacher invoked for inspiration and protection; a small Gesar shrine can be seen on the long circumambulation route around the residence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Mipham Rinpoche, who is responsible for a lot of the windhorse literature, had a particular connection to Gesar and wrote numerous texts both on Gesar-related practices and on his mythic adventures.

What of the actual physical prayer flags, then? Putting them up unites all of the threads of goodness mentioned above into a single act of auspiciousness; for as long as the flags are up, they will continue strengthening our windhorse energy, or that of anyone we dedicate the flags to. To accomplish that, practitioners would traditionally first write people’s names on the rim of the flags, along with wishes for specific people’s wellbeing. Once that important step is done, the flags themselves would be purified (usually by receiving some purifying incense smoke) and blessed, and then put up to hang between two objects and to catch wind. At that point, additional lungta prayers would sometimes be recited, along with dedications and prayers of auspiciousness.

One should note that not every day is seen as being suitable for putting up prayers flags. Days that are not auspicious for this activity are called bhaden and are usually clearly marked in Tibetan calendars (both printed and digital). On one occasion, Lama Zopa Rinpoche asked a monk who put up the prayer flags on a Bhaden day to take them down and then to put them up again once an auspicious date arrives, showing that attention to detail is highly desirable when trying to create positive interdependence.

Another consideration has to do with choosing the flags themselves. Most mass-produced flags commonly sold in India and Nepal are made from synthetic materials which include a high percentage of plastic; however, some companies and individuals are turning towards making organic flags that are environmentally friendly and do not release microplastics.

The texts printed on the flags themselves also differ, and can be related to a number of different meditational deities or practices. Most flags would include all the five  primary colours and be universal enough for most people to use on any occasion. Size-wise, it is recommended to choose flags that are larger than the size of one’s palm. In some cases, if one has received special recommendations from a lama, special types of flags—for example, single color—can be used; I once saw all the prayer flags surrounding the stupa of Boudhanath be replaced with red flags, no doubt upon someone’s request accompanied by an offering. Some practitioners try to put their prayers flags up in holy places, such as Bodhgaya or next to the three great stupas of Kathmandu; others bring them to the regions where Dharma is not yet established, making sure that the gentle breeze of Dharmic energy can gradually create auspiciousness for all who live. In any case, the underlying idea is to keep strengthening our own inner windhorse energy, making sure our positive qualities continue shining through and guiding all beings towards genuine happiness and wellbeing.

To kindness (and beyond) in 108 beads

This article was originally written for the Jamyang Buddhist Center in London

Very few things in the Dharmic traditions of the Indian subcontinent are as enigmatic as the origins of the number 108. While Shaivism, Vaishnavism, Jainism and Buddhism—along with the modern-day New Age authors—all have their own ideas about the signifance of the figure, no particular way to trace this number to its ultimate historical root seems to exist. Just like the mantric syllable OM itself, it is both mysterious and perennial.

While Buddhism in no way claims to be the original source of this intriguing number, it does use it extensively. By the time of the great philosophers Chandrakirti and Shantideva, an important sutra they both quoted from, Descent into Lanka, already contained a chapter in which Bodhisattva Mahamati posed a hundred and eight questions to the Buddha, seeking to clarify such issues as "How is a thought purified?" and "Where do thoughts originate?" The Buddha responds with a hundred and eight statements of his own, quoting the awakened beings of the past as the source for his replies. In the Sūtra of Boundless Life (Tsedo), the Buddha repeatedly references the 108 names of Buddha Āmitāyus, praising the benefits of reciting and praising these names. For the Vajrayāna textual tradition, at least two early Tantric hymns (one of them translated here) listing the hundred and eight names of Tara were preserved in Tibet preserved, both beautiful in their way of praising our ultimate potential as exemplified by the goddess. Similar texts listing one hundred eight names exist for Avalokiteśvara, Khamgarbha, Samantabhadra, Maitreya, and for the Buddha himself. These, of course, mirror hymns of the same genre that exist in the Hindu tradition.

On a more institutional side, the monastic university of Vikramashila is said to have had 108 temples: the main one, 54 smaller ones dedicated to the common teachings of the Buddha, and 53 for the practice of the uncommon tantric teachings. In addition to that, the Indian king Dharmapala was providing the means for the 108 panditas of Vikramashila to continue their studies and practice; this is perhaps the earliest recorded case of benefactorship associated specifically with this number. Still a powerful basis for rejoicing! Furthermore, the great master Vasubandhu, author of many quintessential treatises still used by the Tibetan and Chinese traditions, is quoted as creating 108 Dharma centres in Magadha, and the same number of centres in Odivisha (modern-day Orissa).

When Buddhism arrived to Tibet, the sacred number became similarly embedded in the religious thinking of the country. Sources related to Padmasambhava's life state that a hundred and eight gifted youngsters were sent to the Indian subcontinent to train in languages and to bring back scriptures for the great translation project initiated by King Trisong Deutsen. When the translated teachings of the Buddha were being compiled into Kangyur (most likely during the period of the new translation schools, or sarma, with the final editions produced by Buton Rinchen Drup), the editors chose to organize the most important texts in 108 volumes. Almost 800 years later later, in the 19th century, the prolific non-sectarian scholar Jamgon Kongrul Lodro Thaye wrote a biography for the most important tertons, or treasure teaching revealers, once again symbolically enumerating them as one hundred and eight; this shows that the number remained highly significant throughout the entire history of the Tibetan literary tradition.

108 beads

For people who did not grow up in an environment associated with one of the Dharmic traditions, the first encounter with the number 108 often has more to do with merchandise than anything philosophy- or practice-oriented: most mass-produced malas (prayer beads) used for practice or simply as jewelry have 108 beads. While scrolling through the numerous malas offered on Etsy and similar platforms, one might get to see a huge variety of bead-related creations, many of them beautiful as an ornament—even if not fully usable as a tool for serious Tibetan Buddhist practice.

A mala (trengwa in Tibetan) literally means “garland”; in both Sanskrit and Tibetan this term can be used to refer to a string of flowers, to a range of mountains, or to any other garland, metaphorical or literal. However, when the word “mala” itself is used as a borrowed term in modern English, it almost exclusively  refers to an Indian-style rosary, commonly used by the practitioners of the Dharmic traditions. The specific way of using a mala is slightly different in the different lineages of spiritual practice. Certain common points exist (such as the number of beads or the respect afforded to the rosary), and yet there are major differences as well, even when it comes to the material that a mala is made of. For example, while rudraksha seeds are used by both Hindus and Buddhist, other materials remain fairly exclusive to a specific tradition: tulsi basil malas are only popular amongst the followers of Vishnu, while the so-called “bodhi seeds” and “lotus seeds” are exclusively used by Buddhist. In many places, like the Pashupatinath complex and the Swayambhu hill in Nepal (where Hindu and Buddhist holy sites overall), an experienced eye would immediately recognise which tradition one belongs to by seeing one’s prayer beads.

For Buddhists, malas, as a sequence of beads on a looped string, represent the unending flow of positive qualities. When explaining the significance of the crystal mala held by the four-armed form of Avalokiteśvara,famed translator Tulku Thondup Rinpoche notes that it is held “to symbolise that Buddha’s loving-kindness never ends”. On the Vajrayāna level of teachings, the beads also come to represent the deities of a specific mandala and the syllables of a mantra (or all the mantras one recites).

The best way to create, keep and use malas in the Indo-Tibetan tradition is described in great detail in the Vajrayāna sources. A lot of these teachings are said to originate with Padmasambhava (quite appropriate, since one of his most important philosophical works is called A Mala of Views). According to these instructions, the rosary of a serious Vajrayāna practitioner becomes such an indispensable part of one’s life that it is never to be separated from the warmth of one’s body—never to be left behind. Of course, before forming such a bond with a rosary, strengthened by using it again and again on a daily basis, one would typically carefully choose a suitable one and bless it (or have it blessed), turning it into a valuable tool for one’s practice of mind training through mantra and prayer repetition.

Parts of a mala

Any Buddhist male made in accordance with the traditional instructions would have the following elements:

Counting beads. These are the beads actually used for counting; they would always number as a 108 and be of the same material. While souvenir malas would sometimes combine multiple materials in order to look ornamental, that is not common for practice-oriented malas.

Thread. While traditional sources recommend a cord woven out of 3, 5 or 9 threads and made by a young girl, most malas in this day and age are made using durable synthetic strings. The cord needs to be long enough for the beads to move around easily, but not so long that one has to struggle to reach the next bead.

Head bead / Guru Bead. This is a bead (usually larger in size) that begins and closes the loop. Since it represents the guru, one would not go over this bead while counting; instead, one is supposed to turn the mala around and continue moving in the opposite direction.The string goes through this bead towards the bumpa and the knot.

Bumpa. This little piece crowning the head bead often looks like a three-tier stupa, representing the three bodies of a Buddha; because of that, some mala-makers colloquially refer to it as a “stupa”. In some styles of mala making, the head bead and the bumpa are replaced with three guru beads following each other: white (closest to the counting beads), red, and blue (closest to the knot), also representing the three bodies of an enlightened being.

Knot. Buddhist malas do not typically use tassels, as those are not durable and do not add any practical value. Instead, the bumpa is followed by a strong knot. These are of two primary types: fixed and adjustable. Having an adjustable knot on one’s mala allows one to adjust the tightness and the distance between the counting beads. However, since it takes some of effort to learn the way to make sliding knots (see a video instruction here), people who string their own malas sometimes go for a simpler fixed version.

The following elements are added sometimes, but are not indispensable:

Dividers. These three additional beads divide the mala into four equal parts; alternatively, they can be placed at irregular intervals, such as after the first 21 beads, in the very middle of a mala and so on. Often made from another material or from beads of a larger (or smaller) size, these bring up the overall number of beads to 111. Different masters have different views on whether having dividers is good in terms of creating positive interdependence. However, one of the malas used by the late Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, now preserved as a precious relic, includes multiple coral dividers—some even placed right next to the guru bead in a relatively unconventional design!

Counters. There are two types of counters. One type (chu dzab) consists of ten small rings on a string, often combined with a vajra or a bell (or another auspicious symbol) at the end. Having completed one mala, one moves a small ring towards the body of the mala itself; when ten rings on one counter have been moved, one moves the first ring (representing one thousand repetitions) on the other counter, and then restarts the process. Some Himalayan practitioners have 6 or more of such counters on their mala, making the whole process a bit tricky to navigate but helping them keep track of the incredible numbers they are accumulating.

Another type of counters is made of metal and is only moved around for keep track of larger numbers. These would often be shaped as an auspicious knot, a flower, a Dharma wheel, and so on.

End beads. These are usually small decorative beads, often of the same material as the main beads, attached to the end of the mala string after the knot. On occasion, other decorative elements, such as metal flowers or even dzi beads, are added for auspiciousness or ornamentation. Plain malas might not have any of these.

Common materials for creating malas

Although a mala can be made from anything that can be fashioned into a bead, two distinct principles are often quoted as the basis for making one’s choice: that of general value and that of associated activities.

When it comes to the value of malas, Padmasambhava (as quoted by such modern-day masters as Gyatrul Rinpoche and Zurmang Rinpoche) outlines three levels. The most valuable malas, according to him, would be made from such precious materials as gold, silver, diamond and coral—due to their worldly worth, we would also feel very special about them (although walking around with a diamond mala, as Zurmang Rinpoche jokingly points out, might not be the safest option for most of us). Medium-grade rosaries are made from seeds of beneficial plants, and the least valuable rosaries (that are still perfectly good for practice) would be made from wood, clay, stone, or medicinal substances.

If one wants to choose a mala based on the activity one seeks to perform through one’s practice, a different logic is applied. Malas made of conch shells, crystal, seeds or most types of wood are appropriate for pacifying practices. Beads made from yellow and gold-coloured materials, along with apricot stones are good for expanding, or enriching. Coral, rubies, carnelian, red agate, mahogany and so on are used for magnetising, and finally, lava stone, rudraksha, bone and steel are meant for wrathful activities. Bone malas, although inexpensive and very easily accessible in Himalayan stores, are said to be exclusively meant for wrathful practices, which would normally already imply a certain level of Vajrayāna mastery already.

Certain materials are also mentioned to have the power to multiply the power of one’s mantras; among those, bodhi seeds are praised most highly, with silver, copper, rudraksha, rubies, pearls and some other materials described as having similar, though less strong, properties.

In terms of the malas most commonly used by lamas and common practitioners alike, some of the most popular materials for modern-day rosaries include the following.

Bodhi seeds. Contrary to a common misconception, these have no connection to the bodhi tree (Ficus religiosa) that the Buddha sat down under prior to attaining enlightenment. The bodhi seeds used for making malas are primarily divided into two big categories: “Indian bodhi” (often sold in Bodhgaya and other places of Buddhist pilgrimage) and “Nepali bodhi”. While Indian bodhi seeds can be inexpensively purchased in India and abroad and are perfectly good for making malas, it appears that most texts praising the benefits of bodhi malas are referring to the Nepali variety (Ziziphus budhensis), originally planted in a specific region of Nepal by Padmasambhava himself. Due to their popularity, the price for these seeds skyrocketed in the recent years and is kept high by the demand in the Chinese market. The smaller the bead, the more expensive it is, to the point where a mala with 8-9mm beads can sometimes cost up 800-1000 US dollars.

Some sellers occasionally try to pass a much cheaper type of seed, known in Nepal as raktu, for proper bodhi seeds. While somewhat similar in terms of their look, raktu seeds are extremely cheap (to the point where a whole mala can cost about 1 US dollar) and not very durable; when they dry down, a bead can easily be cracked by applying a little bit of pressure. Raktu malas often have an actual Nepali bodhi seed as the guru bead.

Lotus. In the Chinese market, these seeds are also known as “moon and stars”: they can be distinguished by a number of smaller dots (representing stars) and a small hole (representing the moon). In terms of botany, these have no connection to the actual lotus plant (or any other flower resembling lotuses, such as water lily) and are the polished seeds of rattan (Daemonorops jenkinsiana).

These seeds are relatively popular in the Kagyu tradition — the Sixteenth Karmapa used to give “moon and stars” malas as gifts on occasion — and are either dyed reddish brown or left white/beige. One should note that these seeds can also be imitated using plastic. Real rattan seeds would gradually get darker through use, while the plastic imitation would retain its original color.

Sandalwood. There are two types of sandalwood primarily used for creating malas: the aromatic white sandalwood (Santalum album), known in India as safed chandan, and the non-aromatic red sandalwood (Pterocarpus santalinus), known as rakta chandan or lal chandan. Both are used to make beautiful malas, but it is white sandalwood in particular that is popular for making debate malas commonly used in the Gelug tradition. It is because of this connection that His Holiness the Dalai Lama can often be seen using a white sandalwood rosary.

Rudraksha. Although often associated with Shiva worship and the Hindu tradition in general, rudraksha beads of different varieties (and with a different number of “faces”, or sides) are also used in Buddhism, especially in the Nyingma tradition. Some Nyingma lineages even recommend them as the primary material to use for three-year retreats—most likely because the main practices to be performed in such retreats have to do with advanced Vajrayāna techniques. That being said, such malas are not common amongst beginners and are not usually used for peaceful mantras.

Stones and minerals. Multiple types of precious, semi-precious and common stones are used for making malas. One should note these stone-based malas typically a bit heavier than malas made from seeds or wood—if the beads are large (8mm and above), the sheer weight of the mala is likely to damage the string much faster than with wood-based malas. If that happens, the mala simply needs to be restrung, ideally (as the teachings state) within 1 day.

Being the most common mineral on earth, quartz in particular is often used for making relatively inexpensive malas, including those made from transparent crystal; in India, these rosaries are known as sphatik, also commonly used by Hindu practitioners. Citrine, amethyst, rose quartz and other varieties of the same mineral are frequently used as well, along with lab-dyed and lab-grown quartz of different types. Lab-dyed quartz stones (painted and then heated so that the paint can enter the small cracks) are also frequently passed for other minerals, including peridot and jade.

Two mineral-based materials to be careful with—often serving as ornaments in the Tibetan folk culture—are turquoise and coral. With turquoise, one has to be very careful with finding genuine stones, as most modern turquoise malas are made from imitation stones (including dyed howlite and magnesite), since the reserves of genuine unadulterated turquoise in the world are dwindling. Real coral is similarly extremely expensive; one large red bead made from sea coral can cost as much as 1000 US dollars, so if a full “coral” mala is affordable, it is definitely made from other stones or imitation materials.

Two more stone-like substances that are popular in the Buddhist world are pearls (available in various colours, including pink and black) and amber. Buddhist monastics in India and Nepal are often seen using amber malas, desirable for their yellow color that is seen as auspicious for Mañjuśrī practice; however, checking whether the amber is real can be a bit tricky unless a mala is purchased with an authenticity certificate from the Baltic countries where most of the amber in this world is still found. A cheaper, younger form of amber known as copal can also sometimes be used, but even that is often imitated using tree resins or simply plastic.

At the end of the day, the material of the mala one uses depends on one’s personal inclinations; while some materials are historically praised above others, it also crucial that one’s mala sits comfortably in the hand and brings one joy. Having met many high teachers from the different Buddhist traditions of Tibet—Rinpoches, tulkus, khenpos and geshes—I have seen them use a wide variety of malas, from humble plastic to beautiful natural amber, with almost everything in between. The most common materials have always been Nepali bodhi, rudraksha, and white sandalwood.

In his book on mala creation and use, Zurmang Rinpoche also mentions that the following types of malas are to be avoided:

1. Malas forcibly taken from other practitioners.

2. Malas previously offered to the Buddha, or previously used as ornaments for Buddhist statues.

3. Malas that have less or more than 108 main counter beads.

4. Malas with damaged beads—unless one can replace them.

Blessing a mala

While many practitioners like to have their mala blessed by a lama, one is ideally also supposed to keep personally blessing one’s mala on a regular basis. Elaborate meditation practices are occasionally used for that purpose, but Lama Zopa Rinpoche would commonly advise students to simply recite the blessing mantra (OM RUCHIRA MANI PRAVARTAYA HUM PHAT) and then blow on the mala. More elaborate meditations for the same purpose are taught in different Vajrayāna cycles and would be performed by those who have an empowerment into a specific Vajrayāna system.

Secrecy and the number of malas

Some texts mention that one’s primary mala is to be kept away from other people’s eyes and only used in private daily practice or in retreat. For this reason, some Vajrayāna masters always cover their hand with a shawl while performing their recitations in public (during pujas or while giving an empowerment). Additionally, seasoned Himalayan practitioners would often have two malas: one for private practice and retreats, and another one to be used in public—for example, when circumambulating the Boudhanath stupa or the stupa in Bodhgaya.

Some practitioners would also have separate malas dedicated to different practices, as was the habit of the late Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.

The perfect balance between “one and many” is to be found individually, but any mala we have is meant to be treated as a spiritual tool and not something to show off lightly. A mala is also not to be put into other people’s hands, not to be passed around, and not to be played around with—which makes it very different from the Greek worry beads known as komboloi.

Using a mala

Once a mala is chosen and blessed, one starts actually using it for counting mantras or prayers.

In the absolute majority of practices, a mala, as taught by Guru Rinpoche and later generations of masters, is to be held in the left hand. Using one’s thumb, one moves the beads towards oneself, as if drawing forth blessings and positive energy.

Exceptions are only made for certain dispelling practices, such as reciting the mantra of the Lion-Faced Dakini for warding off negative influences: in that case, the mala might be held in the right hand and the beads might be pushed away. However, the left-hand rule remains true for 99% of most recitation practices performed in the Indo-Tibetan tradition: if you ever observe practitioners who are circumambulating the Boudhanath stupa while doing their recitations, the only ones using their right hand would be Westerners that are still finding their way around the Vajrayāna tradition.

Depending on the specific activity one is performing, the beads, while being held in the left hand, could be placed over one’s index finger (corresponding to peaceful activities), middle finger (enriching), ring finger (magnetising) or pinky (wrathful activities). The general position, in which the mala is held between one’s thumb and the index finger, is said to be acceptable for all activities and all practices.

As was mentioned earlier, when one reaches the guru bead, one flips the mala and starts going back, instead of stepping over the head bead. One full mala is always counted as a 100 repetitions; the additional 8 (on a mala without dividers) or 11 (when dividers are used) are not counted, representing an attempt to make up for one’s mistakes during recitation. Thus, ten full malas are recorded as a 1000 repetitions, not 1080. Additionally, when sneezing, yawning, or coughing, one is meant to move back a few beads each time, making sure the generated energy of mantras is maintained properly.

One warning that is sometimes voiced by the lamas is making sure each bead is indeed accompanied by one repetition. When getting excited, beginner practitioners occasionally start going through their beads at a pace that is much higher than the pace of their actual recitation; I’ve personally seen people go through a full mala while performing barely just a few repetitions of their mantra! While the enthusiasm is understandable, the use of a mala is in itself a wonderful exercise in mindfulness, vigilance and carefulness— three mental factors that play a crucial role in strengthening our inner balance and ethical behaviour.

Conclusion

The number 108 is mysterious in its origins and often merely symbolic in its meaning, representing Dharmic auspiciousness—but the practice of training the mind we can perform with the use of our malas is very real.

A popular Tibetan folk song says “It is better to sing a song with kindness than to recite om mani padme hum with an ugly heart”—but if the recitations are helping us strengthen the beautiful qualities of our heart-mind, a mala becomes a true tool of personal and collective liberation.

Just like with Chenrezig crystal mala, our own malas can also represent a never-ending flow of loving kindness that we are extending to ourselves and to all sentient beings, knowing validly that eventually we will be able to make the overall tapestry of interdependence more auspicious for everyone involved.