Greetings friends,

I had promised to write our Russian Impressions and finally got a moment to put them down. We are now in Chandighar enroute to Dharamsala. It is our most comfortable way to get there..... we have hired an airconditioned car and driver big enough to carry all our luggage inside the car and not on the roof where it gets covered with dust. Five hours from Delhi there is this lovely hotel with fabulous food. Today's trip should be no longer than six or seven hours.

Prema

Russian Impressions

Sept. 2001

"And Russia will be dedicated to the sacred heart of the Lady."

Edgar Cayce

Vast Presence. The buildings are solid. Not high, but wide, sweeping curves. Enormous pillars. For the most part not especially ornate, but there is an elegance in the placement, the relationship to rivers and sky.

And then there is the history. Czars and conquerors. Art and politics. St. Petersburg has always prided itself on being a bastion of culture. And now that the dreariness of the Soviet yoke has been removed, it is as if a sleeping prince awakens from beneath a half a century of dust.

Three years ago we found the general people on the street to be unsympathetic, suspicious. But that has changed. For the most part people still looked downcast and burdened. But they are not looking over their shoulders.

Of course the crowd that had organized for our event were another breed altogether. The rainbow tribe lives and breaths in Russia, and they were so grateful for the effort it took for us to bring our special brand of blessing their way.

We were met by three cars at the airport, all having seen better days in a long ago distant past. Our hostess was Shahodat, from Uzbekistan. We had stayed in her small flat before, and although the area was still somewhat intimidating......long blocks of crumbling, project like apartment buildings, there was certainly a different feel about the place. Of course the weather helped, we arrived to blazing blue autumn days with leaves turning color before our eyes. But the surroundings were cleaner and there were more people enjoying the park like spaces between the buildings.

I don't know if I would call it the spirit of optimism, but it seems that their new President, Putin, has given them some kind of confidence that things could be sorted out eventually. There is food in the stores. And internet cafes tucked into all kinds of nooks and crannies.

The venue for our event was across the city, an hour drive. Shahodat would go out and summon a "taxi". These were not the official fellows with the little lights on the roof of their cars. These were private cars and the rates were negotiable. For the most part they were old, and creaky, but they did the job. We were often accompanied by Olga, a lovely young woman who spoke excellent English and was well versed in the history of the city. As we bumped and banged over the pot holes and tram lines she explained the lay of the land.

When we were first ushered into the building and up the stairs we were pleased that it was clean and the room, although plain, had a nice floor and workable acoustics. We had been cautioned by our translator Mila that there might not be many people, but as the evening developed the room started to fill. And fill. And fill. Women decorated the walls with scarves. Incense gently burning. We turned our minds and hearts to Tara. It was an ecstatic evening.

Ilona, dark hair, big warm eyes had been one of the main organizers of the event. She asked us if we would like to see the hall we would be performing in. Up another flight of stairs, through a stucco hall with cafeteria style table and chairs we were faced with ornately carved wooden doors that opened onto the most astonishing room. The size and stature of a large ballroom, it was a temple to Lord Chaitanya and Nityananda. These were the Hindu saints who had brought the chanting of "Hare Rama, Hare Krishna" to prominence. Their lineage of devotion had made it to the west through the International Society of Krishna Consciousness and we were all familiar with dhoti clad, head shaved westerners bouncing up and down on street corners to that familiar mantra.

The floor was marble, large black and white squares that led to a raised dais where there were statues of the two saints in their most familiar pose, hands raised above their heads in ecstatic worship. "Om Tare" we murmured. They were lavishly attired but there were no other images...no Krishna, no Ganesh. Across the vast room facing the shrine was a lovely bronze statue of Garuda, the eagle mount of Lord Vishnu. The walls were achingly white, one wall lined with windows. There was a thin line of balcony surrounding the room, upheld by Mogul like arches.

The next day we had 40 people to work with. The mandala kept expanding as more people arrived from more distant areas. We moved the practice into the upper hall. It was ponderous trying to teach the dance in another language. We are pressed to accomplish the training in a weekend at the best of times but this set of challenges was truly on a vast Russian scale. Fortunately they were all accomplished dancers and had no trouble working through the complexities of the Mandala and the changes that kept occurring as more people joined the circle of protection. They were marvelously good spirited and we drew close, so very close.

The offering was, as always, ecstatic and empowering. We had several young women with us and their experiences were so moving. Shahodat's oldest daughter, Zjenya took note the first night that this was a deep experience she had not anticipated. She is a modern imp, head shaved in stubbled rows, a tattoo on one arm. Intensely interested in education, computer literate, we became close friends.

13 year old Alisa, curly black hair tumbling around a madonna face, danced Invincible Courage. She broke down in tears after describing how deeply she feels the suffering of the world and how difficult it is to know what to do about it.

It is interesting how universal the experience of dancing the 21 Praises of Tara is. This was the first time we attempted to teach the full mandala to a group that was for the most part not fluent in English. But as I watched the women be birthed out of the mandala, there was no real difference between the women in Ireland, the women in Hawaii, the women from Brazil. Our eight male protectors supported the gathering with such grace, as our Mother Tara poured her inspiration into the world and we all opened to meet Her, empowered and empowering.

Monday we went on our own mini pilgrimage. The last time we visited St. Petersburg Anahata had been drawn to a small icon of St. Xenia. She is the patron Saint of St. Petersburg, a woman of the 19th century, who had been happily married. When her husband died, she became completely effaced in his memory, donned his clothes and wandered about the city. It was found that wherever she went people were healed and problems were solved. We went to her shrine and were swept into the sensory overwhelm of Russian Orthodoxy. The tiny chapel containing her crypt was packed with the faithful. A priest intoned the sonorous liturgy, the people singing back the responses like a choir of angels. The air thick with the smells of incense and candle wax, we rested at a back table to write our wish on a small piece of paper. Outside the shrine was an alcove where the notes of petition were placed with tall beeswax tapers. We prayed earnestly for the safety of our pilgrims. The sky was gently overcast and we felt the saint's blessing upon us.

It was a day of churches. During the days of communist rule the great cathedrals had been turned into warehouses and factories. The Russian Federation (as the country is now called) started reclaiming them as museums, and many of them are being re-sanctified and reactivated. They house innumerable treasures with fabulous stories. We were shown a beautiful icon of Mother Mary. During the WWII Nazi siege of St. Petersburg (then known as Leningrad) the people of the city faced starvation. An old priest had a vision of the Icon and appealed to Lenin to let the people carry it in a procession around the city. In desperation he allowed the procession and the siege was soon broken.

Anahata was keen to video the Holy Sepulchre of the Blood, a gently towering structure of golden ice cream cone turrets, blue and yellow and green tiled onion peaks, stone alcoves and colorful frescos. As we approached the church in the late afternoon the clouds parted, bathing it in a celestial light. We had to walk past the first time, hastening towards the travel agency where we were to purchase the tickets for Olga and Ilona to join us on the pilgrimage. Olga will be our Sound Engineer and Ilona will dance for Russia. Her ticket was provided through Anahata's fund raising efforts over the last year.

We wanted to take a number of our Russian sisters: Karima, a statuesque, blond dance leader from Moscow, Shahodat from Uzbekistan, Gillian, an English dancer married to a Russian musician, Helena, a Russian moon goddess, Mila, our erudite translator, and Jamilla, beautiful, talented Jamilla. They created a ritual of black and white chocolate covered almonds so that the choice would be serendipity and they might all celebrate the selected. Ilona was first chosen and then Jamilla. If our last ditch fund raising is successful, Jamilla is poised to come as well.

On our way back to the church a small, babushka of a woman was standing on the side of a busy thoroughfare holding up a spider's web of a white shawl. She said she had worked it herself. We bought her three pieces so she could go home for the day .... all of us thrilled with the encounter. That art is from the Ural mountains, Olga told us," you cannot easily find such things."

We captured the Church of the Blood in the last fading light and persuaded a "taxi" to take us home to Shahodat. The road was long and tortuous, as everywhere in the city roads are torn up and buildings under renovation. In two years the city will celebrate its 300th birthday and is preparing for a year of festivities. Perhaps we can join them. We have been invited to lead a camp in the Crimea, on the Black Sea. We have been told that the sea is clear and warm in September, the area surrounded by lakes and rivers and forests. Sounds pretty tempting to this mermaid.

Russia, anyone?

Prema and Anahata