It is not until toward the end of a long day—
our legs and backs stiff from sitting—
that we tie on the boots and underskirts,
the rippling silk robes, and finally, the large
papier-maché masks.

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From behind the mask
each eye points in a different direction,
disorienting us as dancers,
shifting our ordinary perception.

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We wait, silent in the stairwell,
as burning gugul floats up around us.
The Power of Truth is chanted and then echoes
as a cacophony of cymbals, drums, and horns.

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When we enter, it is as though we have stepped
into Guru Rinpoche’s mindstream,
circling the mandala, dizzy and without any reference point,
as the gestures of the dance begin to unfold.

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The steps seem to go on and on,
requiring more effort than I ever expected,
taking more breath than I can hold.
It is as though time has stood still.

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As I twirl I forget the steps,
and rest in a space between thoughts
while the room spins ever faster,
until finally, it is time to leave.

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Afterward we sit exhausted,
unable to move in the wake of the blessings.
Perhaps it’s true, maybe we are getting old for this,
but until samsara is emptied, we need to dance.

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Meanwhile, we return to our lives changed.
It is not that we teach the dance
but that the dance teaches us, dissolving any
trace of obstacles
as we aspire to enlightenment

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