Porto Alegre - Where the Dakini's Dance
April 3-6, 2003

Meandering around the heavily forested hills, up, up to the top, we drove through an emerald meadow and parked before an imposing Tibetan Temple. Chagdud Tulku's gonpa was completely traditional and as we were lovingly escorted about the place we went from one amazement to the next. It was the first time on the journey that I had forgotten to take the camera .... so I will try to describe in word pictures the wonder of this magical land where the Dakinis Dance.

We were met by three lovely women, eager to find out more about the Tara Dance and to share stories of their teacher's last days. Lama Sherab, olive skinned, her short black ringlets shaping her charming, intelligent face, described Rinpoche's dramatic passing in the shrine room, during a teaching on death.

We were told that his wife Jane was in retreat when he passed away. All the years she had lovingly served him and the community I was at first sad to hear that when she finally had the opportunity to retreat herself she had to come out of it to handle the death ceremonies and assume the mantle of his far reaching organization.

I asked where she was in retreat and the Lama pointed to the topmost room of the gompa, above Chagdud's Room, the crowning jewel, where usually only the highest Lamas stay. And then I understood. The very name of the Center means Land of the Dakinis and our dear Jane was now called Chagdud Khadro (Dakini). Rinpoche in his infinite understanding had left his treasure in the hands of a woman. Of all the Lamas he has been the one to give full equality in all ways to his female students.

The shrine room danced with the lavish and colorful symbols of enlightened mind. There were thrones for the high Lamas, rows of meditation tables, thankas and statues. The walls were painted with towering murals of Offering Goddesses, Protectors and of course, Red Tara.

Out the door and around the corner we visited a row of magnificent, glassed in rooms housing enormous prayer wheels. An anonymous donor had provided the money and the many residents at the center the means. Electric motors turned them continuously sending the millions of mantric blessings into a world that desperately needs the balance and the grace.

Another jog about the grounds and we were treated to the ice cream cake vision of seven stunning stupas, each style representing some aspect of the Buddha Dharma. We reverently walked about them reflecting on the preciousness of this opportunity, this human birth that had encountered the power and truth of the Dharma.

Paths and gardens led us to a towering statue of a brilliant dark blue Akshobya Buddha. The sanga was engaged in the accumulation of the Akshobya mantra in order to purify the terrible deaths that were occurring in the world. It was also designed to purify especially troubling karma that arose from actions that hung about the psyche as undercurrents of guilt and grief. In the front of the grounds was a modern building. Chagdud Khadro's pet project was a hospice and the first to live and die there was Rinpoche himself. He had moved into the center a couple of weeks before he actually passed away.

We were treated to a lovingly prepared meal in the spacious dining room and were able to visit the lavish bookstore before having to leave. Margaride, Marge's mother had driven us the two long hours from Porto Alegre and did not want to drive home in the dark. We all were given gifts, we gave some of our own and then down the trail we went.

Halfway through the journey, bopping down the highway Anahata exclaimed excitedly and asked us to stop. A small stand set up on the side of the road displayed carved gourd cups called chimarrao, used by the locals in one of their favorite occupations ..... drinking and sharing Mate. This tea like preparation requires a certain amount of ritual ...... the chimarrao must be specially treated and once the hot water is poured over the leaves one sips it through a carved silver straw. It is then passed around whoever happens to be assembled until a gurgling sound indicates the water has bottomed out. Again boiling hot water is poured over the herb, the chimarrao is passed, the ritual continues until everyone who wants some has had some.

The next day Marge arrived from Florianopolis, a six hour bus ride to help organize an evening introduction of the Tara Dance. It was held in the city in preparation for a weekend retreat. We were overjoyed to see so many of our old friends. Aldo came with tears in his eyes, we had thought of him and his gentle generosity so much since his visit to Maui and our Tara and the Tarot camp. The dancing was ecstatic and many friends assured us they would be joining us for the full weekend.

The next morning we drove to Lama Sonam's retreat center just outside oftown. Lama Sonam was the first Brazilian to be ordained by Chagdud Tulku. Although he was teaching a class in Bahia he had been happy to grant Marge the permission for us to have our Tara Dance retreat at his center and to dance and teach in the shrine room.

We settled into the simple accommodations. Our cooks were most intrigued by the energy of the group and the older woman announced that her tradition was the Candomble. In that tradition each member is "family" to one Orisha and she told us she was a daughter of the Great Mother. We sang Tara's mantra to her and her eyes filled with tears. We asked her assistant whose "daughter" she was and she pointed to the Head Cook. It was her mom. Lots of hugs and happiness followed that little exchange.

Marge and Anahata went to pick caqui (persimmons). I wandered about with the camera, enjoying the huge flowering trees.

Zuitan, a Zen nun and very close friend of Marge's, joined us mid morning and assisted Anahata with the music.

Marge had been leading a group of Taras in the Mandala dance for the past two years in Porto Alegre and it was a great fulfillment for everyone that we would be able to deepen the practice. A couple of journalists happened to come for the ending offering. We had not prepared this as a public performance but as a private practice. And yet, even with just these two sincere friends, they seemed to represent all beings as we danced our prayers and enjoyed the empowerment inherent in the practice.

The woman journalist was in tears, both she and the photographer were included in our ending dance, hugs and kisses. She stayed after to interview us for a popular woman's magazine.

The next day, Rita, a wild wonder woman in her green Tara Renault big enough to take us and all the luggage drove us to the airport. We were heading back to Rio. When we approached the check in counter Anahata discovered to her horror that the plane was going to make two stops before landing in Rio. The first one would be Curitiba, the land where the sky touches the earth.

Sabira had been so convincing that this was the absolute worse place to fly to that Anahata refused to get on the plane. She was quite near hysterics when Jorge, Marge's partner had the sympathetic check-in attendant call the Curitiba airport. She announced that this very day the weather was the best it had ever been and that visibility couldn't be better. In the meantime I was rushing from counter to counter to see if there were any direct flights on any other airlines. There weren't. Anahata was insisting that she would go by bus. The bus ride was 24 hours and I was not going to join her if she refused to fly.

With great reluctance Anahata watched our luggage being checked in . With tremendous hesitation and suspicion she allowed me to lead her through the safety check, waving to our friends as if doom itself was about to claim her.

Lady Fortune smiled upon us, the ups and downs were uneventful and in a few easy hours we were welcomed to Rio into the open arms of our dear Maria Ache.

Prema and Anahata

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