“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” — Helen Keller
“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” — Anaïs Nin
“Within Tibetan Buddhism, the black crow carries deep symbolic meaning connected to the Karmapa lineage itself. The crow is associated with Mahakala, the protector deity traditionally linked to the Karmapas, and appears repeatedly throughout the mythology and history surrounding the lineage. The prophetic dream, seemed also to be connected to the crows that had appeared months before on my window sill befor I met the 17th Karmapa and take refuge vows for the first time alone in a private audience.
At the time, I only partially understood these symbolic layers intellectually. But emotionally, I sensed that something deeper was unfolding beneath the visible surface of my life: something connected to devotion, karma, spiritual longing, projection, symbolism, and identity in ways I could not yet separate clearly. What I did know was this: my inner life was becoming increasingly intense, visionary, and psychologically transformative. And I was moving deeper and deeper into a spiritual world that was beginning to reshape not only my beliefs, but my very understanding of reality itself. It was only later that the meaning of the “black crow dream” was revealed but the 17th Karmapa told me at the time it was profound and a good omen.”–Adele Tomlin
Introduction
There can be no doubt that my life so far has been an extraordinarily rich, risky, and unpredictable adventure: full of ups and downs, intense bliss, deep wisdom, heartbreaking betrayals, bullying, sabotage, and moments when I was running on empty with almost no money in the bank, relying on credit — and merit — to keep going. Seriously. At other times, the astonishing kindness and generosity of others arrived at exactly the right moment, like a rain of blessings from Guru Padmasambhava.
This is also the real-life story of a lone woman who struggled against the odds of abuse, betrayal, social isolation, defamation, and institutional hostility, yet refused to be worn down by the false and constrictive narratives of others. It is a story of staying true to the heart, to the essence of Dharma, and to the deepest wish for awakening, even when others tried to obstruct, diminish, or destroy that passion.
Only now do I fully realise that there are unique, unprecedented, and powerful aspects of my lived experience. Without public institutional support or backing, I created Dakini Translations, one of the most widely read online resources for Dharma research and translations. I continued this work even while facing bans, exclusion, and a bizarre legal action — all apparently intended to silence my voice, presence, authenticity, devotion, and wish to attain liberation. At times, even access to gurus with whom I had a clear vajra connection seemed to be deliberately blocked.
This is not fiction. It is a living story of what becomes possible when a woman persists, refuses to give up, and will not abandon her extraordinary passion and faith in the Guru, Buddha, and Dharma, nor her wish to be liberated from samsara and help liberate others. For that reason, I began writing this autobiography, with the intention of eventually publishing it as a book. Here, I share a few chapters from that larger work.
As many great Buddhist masters have taught through their own life stories: obstacles in Dharma activity are often a sign that something meaningful is happening. No obstacles at all is seen as the real obstacle.
Yet we live in a time when social media often presents the lives and activities of teachers as though they were worldly politicians: meeting VIPs, celebrities, wealthy sponsors, and prominent families; endlessly photographed offering scarves, mandalas, and long-life empowerments. Meanwhile, there is often little transparency about their private lives, little questioning of Tibetan history or sectarian violence, and little honest reckoning with sexual violence, misogyny, or the silencing of women — except by the few brave women willing to speak out.
This is very far removed from the origins of Buddhism. Shakyamuni Buddha was born into extraordinary privilege, yet abandoned it all to wear the ragged robes of a mendicant monk, beg for alms, and depend on others for food and shelter. His way of life was designed to reduce attachment, pride, and desire. Later came the great Indian Mahasiddhas and Mahasiddhīs, who often lived in caves, owned almost nothing, or undertook humbling and unconventional forms of service to cut through arrogance and pride.
In my sincere efforts to study, practise, and receive the Buddha Dharma in India, the first Tibetan Buddhist guru I met, took refuge vowas and became devoted to was the 17th Gyalwang Karmapa. That is no mere accident but a karmic interdependence of immense fortune and merit, spanning centuries. I fell deeply in love with Vajrayana: the vajra bliss, the mantras, the stupas, the crazy-wisdom gurus, the secret consort practices, the pilgrimages to extraordinary and inspiring places. But as a well-educated, English woman with beauty, intellectual strength, intense passion, and an independent mind willing to ask difficult questions when official narratives did not match the facts, I also encountered another side of that world: politics, competitiveness, deception, bullying, sexism, misogyny, and brute violence masquerading as tantric rituals and positive motivation.
I hope that when the full autobiographical book is published, readers will find it educational, revelatory, entertaining, moving, funny, tragic, and inspiring. Above all, they will see it as story of courage, risk, danger and hope: of risking everything for truth, love, devotion, and liberation. Of an indestructible passion and devotion to the Dharma and Guru. It will be the “Eat, Pray, Coffee” and more of the Tibetan and Himalayan Buddhist world. Not an outsider’s view but a woman immersed in the language and culture of the tradition in India and Nepal for years. A “secret consort”, translator-scholar with private access to some of the tradition’s most revered masters, who also remained true to independent thinking, and a fierce sense of calling out (regardless of their name or status) any injustice or unethical conduct in relation to women and animals.
Two of my favourite Indian-authored novels are The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy and A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, both of which moved me to tears. Like those fictional works, I see my own life as a story of tragedy, joy, love, loss, betrayal, and, ultimately, comedy. Close up, the small moments can feel like intense dramas; from the distance of time, many reveal themselves as strangely comical and symbolic, shaped by the ironic twists of karma, fate, fortune, and the greatest teacher of all: time.
Truth, as they say, can be stranger than fiction.
I realised it is not easy to write an honest and authentic autobiography. One wants to remain faithful to the facts and emotions of lived experience, while also avoiding unnecessary harm to the living and those close to them. A “no holds barred” autobiography requires discipline, courage, self-reflection, and the willingness to revisit painful memories. The real question is: can we be brave enough to speak the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Or do we, as the famous song suggests, sometimes choose to forget what is too painful to remember?
As a teenager, I remember reading the erotic poetry and literature of Anaïs Nin, a woman who broke taboos and boundaries alongside her lover and fellow writer, Henry Miller. I had always been drawn to rebels, poets, artists, and underdogs. How true it is when she said: ” life expands in proportion to one’s courage”.
And I would add: life also expands in proportion to what one is willing to risk, lose, and sacrifice for the Guru, inner wealth, truth, freedom, love, liberation, and awakening.
Below are three sample chapters covering a couple of the early (and formative) years based mainly in India. The period after taking refuge with the 17th Karmapa, leaving life in London, and finishing a few months study of Tibetan language in Boudhanath, Nepal (2006-7).
Written with love, inspiration, courage and a kind, warm heart. Music? Yeshe Tsogyel’s Longing for Meaning (sung and arranged by Adele Tomlin/Dakini Songs), Jig of Life by Kate Bush, and Simple Twist of Fate, Idiot Wind and Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands by Bob Dylan.
Excerpts from Indestructible Devotion: A Lone Woman’s Journey of Courage, Love and Liberation in Tantric Buddhism (Autobiographical Notes. Adele Tomlin) Copyright 2026.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Leaving Nepal Studies again for India (2006): Meetings with the 17th Karmapa and Requesting a Spiritual Consort
By this stage, it had become clear to me that my life was no longer in London or Europe. It was moving steadily deeper into the world of Tibetan Buddhism and Vajrayana.
Although I had valued my time in Nepal (end of 2005-6) as a Tibetan language student and had learned a great deal there, including my love and ease for the Tibetan language, I increasingly felt that I needed to be in the place where the centre of my spiritual life now existed: near the 17th Karmapa himself, the first teacher I had met and who had given me my first refuge vows in a private audience alone with him, together with my first Tibetan name.
At that time, following his escape from Tibet into exile in 2000, the Karmapa was residing at Gyuto Monastery near Dharamshala. The monastery belonged to the Gelug tradition of Tibetan Buddhism and had been offered to him as a residence after his arrival in India.
So after completing two terms of study in Nepal, in the latter half of 2006 I relocated back to Dharamsala, India and began establishing myself there more permanently.
To support my Tibetan studies, I enrolled at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, one of the most important centres for Tibetan language and Buddhist study in exile. Looking back now, I understand far more clearly the institutional and political landscape surrounding Tibetan Buddhism in exile, particularly the historical dominance of the Gelug tradition and the central role of the institution of the Dalai Lama within Tibetan political life.
At that time, however, I approached everything with a kind of innocence.
I was not yet fully aware of the historical tensions, sectarian dynamics, or complex political realities that existed beneath the surface of Tibetan exile society. I simply arrived as an eager Western student wanting sincerely to study language, philosophy, and Buddhism.
In many ways, those years were deeply joyful.
Life in Dharamshala revolved around study, practice, teachings, and waiting for opportunities to see the guru, 17th Karmapa. Public audiences took place weekly, particularly on Wednesdays, and I attended them regularly. Sometimes there were also Saturday teachings attended by perhaps fifty or a hundred people: a mixture of Western students, Tibetan laypeople, monks, and practitioners. At that time, I had no idea about the Gelugpa sectarian bias at the Library in terms of studies or teachers, which I later realised. Nor that the 17th Karmapa was being heavily restricted by them (and others) in terms of his freedom of movement and travel. Being used like a political pawn for various political groups and factions in Tibetan exile.
Yet, in those days, the 17th Karmapa was still remarkably accessible compared to what came later. It was relatively easy to meet and speak to him in a private audience (even if only briefly). Only in his absence, did I realise that my time there was also part of trying to “capture” me for the activities of Gelugpa base camp in Dharamsala, while my whole being, body, speech and mind wanted to contribute and participate in supporting the efforts and activities of the 17th Karmapa.
“Too Young and Too Beautiful” to teach English to 17th Karmapa
During this period, I learned about being a woman there and how women were treated differently to men. I was an excellent and promising Tibetan language student in both Nepal and at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. As I wrote about my time in Nepal, Tibetan came naturally and easily to me. My high level of education and native English fluency were also prized and rare skills in that context.
One of the senior figures at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, the then Director of Translations and Reseach, Dr, Chog Tenzin had approached me with what seemed at the time an extraordinary possibility. He told me that the 17th Karmapa had been looking for an English teacher. Because I was a native English speaker and even had a TEFL teaching qualification (which I had gained in one month course while doing my undergraduiate degree) , my name had apparently been suggested.
But then he added, almost casually, that the proposal had been blocked.
The reason, he said, was that I was considered “too young and too beautiful.”
At the time, I accepted the explanation without fully understanding its implications. Another woman was chosen instead, a British woman, Jo, who was considerably older than me, and was clearly viewed as a safer and more suitable option. She had been teaching at a Gelugpa monastery there, and was more aligned with the 14th Dalai Lama. I remember feeling disappointed at the lost opportunity, but my life was already moving in another direction of a worldly romance. Only later did I begin to see that “blocked opportunity” differently.
I realised later that it was not really about my physical appearance, qualifications or suitability at all. It was about control. About gatekeeping. About Tibetan Buddhist politics and a deeply patriarchal system in which women, particularly younger, physically attractice women, were treated as potential threats simply because they existed near positions of spiritual authority and “celibate” monks.
What struck me even more was the hypocrisy of it. The same people who claimed I was “too young and beautiful” to teach English to the 17th Karmapa only a few months later suggested that I train as an oral interpreter for one of the older Geshe monks at the library. Apparently my age and appearance were only problematic in relation to one Karma Kagyu monk (the Karmapa) and not another, Gelugpa monk. The inconsistency and double standards revealed the truth beneath the explanation.
Although I was still rather naive and trusting of men in monastic robes with impressive titles and debating skills, I began slowly to understand that many of the obstacles I encountered were not accidental. There were undercurrents of fear, politics, and possessiveness operating beneath the surface of the spiritual world I had idealised.
Nontheless, at that time, I forgot about it, as there was a sense of closeness and intimacy around the 17th Karmapa’s teachings that would later become much more difficult as his fame and responsibilities expanded internationally. At that time, it was still possible to encounter him relatively directly, attend teachings in small groups, and remain physically near the unfolding life of the lineage around him. So the “violent” sexism and ageism of being blocked from the opportunity to teach my precious root guru was thrown into the vaults of memory, to be brought into the light of wisdom and hindsight at a later date.
During the winters, I began travelling through northern India, following the rhythm of the teachings and gatherings connected to the Kagyu tradition. Sometimes this meant travelling to Sarnath, where I attended programmes at Vajravidya Institute associated with Thrangu Rinpoche. At other times, it meant travelling onward to Bodh Gaya for the great Kagyu Monlam prayer gatherings held near the site of the Buddha’s enlightenment.
Those journeys became part of a new rhythm to my life.
The further I entered that world, the more distant my former life in London began to feel, almost as though it belonged to another person entirely.
Tantric Union and Spiritual Partner
Around the same time (2006), another aspect of Vajrayana Buddhism had begun quietly capturing my imagination and curiosity.
As I read more deeply into Tibetan Buddhist philosophy and tantric practice when was in London after meeting the 17th Karmapa for the first time in India (2005), I became increasingly fascinated by the idea of spiritual partnership within Vajrayana, particularly the concept of the consort relationship within advanced tantric traditions. The idea that spiritual development could involve not only solitary practice, but also a profound union of wisdom, compassion, masculine and feminine energies, and transformative partnership, resonated with me very deeply.
Part of this undoubtedly emerged from my own emotional history and my dissatisfaction with previous short-lived romantic relationships, which had often felt emotionally incomplete, disconnected, or lacking spiritual depth.
But this attraction was not merely romantic or sexual. It felt symbolic, archetypal, and spiritual.
The more I studied Vajrayana teachings, the more I sensed that intimate tantric union practice relationships could potentially become part of spiritual transformation itself, rather than simply social or emotional arrangements.
This idea fascinated me enormously, as did experiencing incredible orgasmic bliss, the very nature of our mind and reality.
At one point, I even spoke openly about this longing to find a tantric union partner, or consort. I remember telling Thrangu Rinpoche, the 17th Karmapa’s tutor, when I had first travelled to Nepal and met him at his monastery in Nepal in 2006, that I was seeking such a spiritual partner: someone connected not only sexually, emotionally and intellectually, but spiritually as well.
He listened kindly and told me that he would make prayers for this to happen.
At the time, I had no idea how profoundly this longing for spiritual connection, and the misunderstandings, projections, and consequences surrounding it, would shape the next and later chapters of my life. Causing both major shifts in consciousness, erotic experience and direction, but also major heartbreak, betrayal and leading me to question the authenticity (based on genuine love and compassion, the essential quality of bodhicitta motivation) of senior male teachers in the tradition.
Sacred Places and the Reality of Pilgrimage
By the winter of 2006, my life had become increasingly immersed in the rhythms of Tibetan Buddhist practice, teachings, pilgrimage, and travel across northern India.
Until then, Tibetan Buddhism had largely existed for me through books, ideas, teachings, and brief encounters. Arriving in the sacred Buddhist pilgrimage places of northern India changed something much deeper inside me. For the first time, the spiritual world I had been intellectually searching toward became physically real.
I travelled through places that had existed in my imagination for years: Sarnath, where the Buddha is said to have given his first teaching after enlightenment, and Bodh Gaya, where he attained awakening beneath the Bodhi Tree more than two thousand years earlier.
Simply being in these places affected me profoundly.
At Sarnath, which is very near the sacred ancient city of Varanasi, there was a strange stillness beneath the noise and movement of modern India, as though the landscape itself retained some memory of centuries of practice and contemplation. I would rent a bicycle there and cycle around and circumambulate the huge ancient stupa there, as well as visit the place where the Buddha gave his first teaching at a deer park.
There were a few guesthouses and Tibetan Buddhist monasteries, but it was not very touristy or over-developed then.
Bodh Gaya, the place where the Shakyamuni Buddha attained awakening, by contrast, felt charged with intensity but also much more visible material poverty and lack of basic infrastructure.
It was an incredible and inspiring place to be, with pilgrims from every Buddhist tradition circling the Mahabodhi Temple day and night, monks chanting continuously, prayer flags moving in the cold winter wind, and the enormous Bodhi Tree spreading its branches above the Vajrasana, the Diamond Throne, where the Buddha was believed to have sat during enlightenment. I would go there at least twice a day to meditate and circle the main Bodhi Temple stupa. I was in love with the whole place and experience, and even though children in raggedy clothes begged and hassled for money wherever tourists went, and street dogs roamed the dusty roads, I loved being there and it was an eye-opener to the suffering of poverty and sickness one does not see so blatantly in Europe.
That year was also my first attendance at the Kagyu Monlam at Bodh Gaya led by Ogyen Trinley Dorje. In later years from around 2010 onwards, the Kagyu Monlam would grow into an enormous international gathering attended by many thousands of people. But at that time, it still retained a smaller, almost intimate quality. The Karmapa sat beneath the Bodhi Tree surrounded by monks, nuns, and lay practitioners, and it still felt possible to be physically close to him during teachings and prayers.
For me, this closeness made the experience deeply moving. We chanted prayers beneath the same tree where the Buddha himself had attained awakening. We circumambulated the Vajrasana together in the early mornings and evenings. Butter lamps flickered in the darkness while Tibetan chants echoed across the temple grounds. There was a feeling that spiritual practice was not abstract philosophy there, but something alive, embodied, and collective.
I felt, perhaps for the first time in my life, that I had found a world that reflected the deepest longings I had carried since childhood, and realising why I had never fitted in or belonged in my home town and country.
An English “misfit eccentric”, being insulted by Karmapa’s oral translator, and the worldly social cliques and “mean girl energy” surrounding Karmapa
Even then, I often felt that I did not belong in the social cliques of McLeod Ganj, or among the Karma Kagyu circles that gathered around the teachings in Bodh Gaya and Sarnath. I had not abandoned worldly life in the UK to socialise, gossip, or be seen. I was there to see the guru, the 17th Karmapa, to study Tibetan, and to practise Dharma. I was intense and passionate about the path, and perhaps some people found that strange or threatening. I was seen as aloof, mysterious, an English eccentric — an oddball.
I had always been something of a loner and misfit even at school, but despite our all sharing an interest in Buddhism and connection to the 17th Karmapa, I felt slightly apart from the hierarchies that formed among the laypeople around the Karmapa’s entourage.
One particular circle seemed to gather around a Tibetan man, N (for privacy’s sake), the Karmapa’s English oral interpreter at that time, and several British women who appeared to be close to him, including Chloe Roberts (a music business manager,who later went on to manage the 17th Karmapa’s trip to the UK) and Naomi Levine (a writer and devotee of 12th Tai Situpa mainly, who later became part of the English language writing team associated with the 17th Karmapa’s teachings).
Chloe would say hello when I saw her, but I had no real desire to be part of her social group. The endless café and restaurant socialising, gossip and worldly conversations in places like Mohammed’s Cafe, reminded me too much of school or office politics. I also intuitively sensed a kind of “mean girl energy” there. I was young, new to the scene, yet already had privileged access to teachers, empowerments, and was studying Tibetan language. Something most of them had not done or showed any interest in.
At the same time, I understood that my distance may have made me seem unfriendly. Yet even when I tried to be warm or approachable, I sensed little interest in return. There was a subtle exclusion, perhaps because I did not appear to need their approval or place within their hierarchy. An “underdog” the social clique excluded and under-valued. Was it my age, physical appearance, intelligence or something even deeper than that? A sensed knowing of karmic destiny and interdependence, that no social grouping could ever manufacture or overwhelm?
At the first Kagyu Monlam I attended in 2006, I was an unknown English woman with an intense devotion to the 17th Karmapa and interest in Tibetan language and philosophy. Yet, during that time, the oral translator, N expressed open hostility towards me on two occasions. Once, in a small Indian restaurant in Bodh Gaya, about a half hour before the 17th Karmapa was due to give a teaching in the evening, he suddenly swore at me and called me a “f**king big-headed arrogant bitch,” even though we had barely met or spoken. His anger was so intense that I had to get up and leave. I remember the Indian staff at the cash desk looked visibly shaken and concerned as N got up from his chair and continued haranguing me verbally as I left the restaurant.
The outburst came after I had challenged N on what I saw as his casual sexism towards a Chinese devotee of the 17th Karmapa, about whom he had been making insinuations regarding her promiscious relationships with men. I had also made the “grave” mistake of repeating that someone had told me his oral translations were sometimes inaccurate, and I gave specific examples. Although, perhaps I should not have shared my opinions with him in hindisght, I was shocked by the sudden force of his anger, the swearing, and the sexist contempt shown by someone who had spent years around both the 16th and 17th Karmapas. Perhaps he was simply having a bad day, and I was the easiest target. It left me feeling shaken and saddened by it.
Immediately afterwards, N went on to translate the 17th Karmapa’s teaching in a hall at the five star hotel near the Bodhi temple (this was before Tergar Monastery opened). N was visibly distracted and emotionally unsettled. I remember the 17th Karmapa repeatedly correcting him, telling him to pay attention, and asking what had happened. People laughed awkwardly, and I laughed too, though I knew exactly what had happened. It felt as though the Karmapa was giving both of us a profound teaching. I took it that way.
After that, I never mentioned the incident again, nor did I speak to N and neither did he. Yet he seemed to hold on to some hostility. This became clear several years later, when I returned to Dharamsala after a few years absence and personally requested a short text from the 17th Karmapa to translate before I commenced a postgraduate degree in Europe— an episode I will return to later.
In any case, samsara and karma works in clear and symbolic ways, when we can see the “bigger picture”. Looking back, it was not a social circle I had neither been included in, nor felt much alignment. It seemed worldly, not focused on the language, translation, practice or study, but more on social cliques and gossip. They also often ate meat, which was something I could never get my head around.
In some ways, my gut instinct proved correct. Some of these women later became involved in the Karmapa’s activities in the UK and Europe, including the organisation of pop-music-style performances in Bodh Gaya, the United States, and the UK from around 2017 onwards. I did not attend those concerts for a variety of personal and practical reasons. Yet, looking back now, I am glad I did not, and can see that period was the beginning of a troubling shift in the public image and conduct of the 17th Karmapa and the people surrounding him.
As I wrote here before, from a Vinaya (monastic discipline) perspective, monastics are not supposed to indulge in worldly music or entertainment that stimulates excessive attachment, sensuality, or arousal. For me, the atmosphere around those events marked a departure from the intelligence, discipline and restraint I had expected from a monastic lineage and communitiy, but even from a non-monastic Buddhist practitioner committed to preserving their vows and ethical discipline, particularly in relation to women.
Thus, it did not surprise me much either, when in 2022, and serious public scandal faced the Karmapa, none of those women supported him publicly. I went out of my way to promote, share, transcribe and expand on his online teachings and activities while people were reeling from the scandal, but the performers of those “pop concerts” and the female MCs of the Kagyu Monlams, were nowhere to be seen.
Chloe even told me in an email when I inquired about her ongoing connection with the Karmapa, that ” she no longer followed or had contact with him”.
Although they are not bad people, my instincts about the group were ultimately proven correct. They seemed more interested in promoting themselves, their music, songs, performers and worldly business interests and social cliques than being there publicly (and personally) when it counted the most; when Karmapa was facing one of the worst public and private challenges of his lifetime (more on that later).
CHAPTER TWELVE
Highest Yoga Tantra blissful unions, dreams of black crows and the 17th Karmapa: Kagyu Monlam 2006
Empowerments and blissful union
Before the Monlam, while staying in Sarnath (the place where the Buddha gave his first teachings) on my first visit there I spent time around the Vajra Vidya Institute, associated with Thrangu Rinpoche, the tutor of the 17th Karmapa.
During that period, I had been studying more about Vajrayana practice, and requested and received a Vajrasattva empowerment from Thrangu Rinpoche together with a small group of monks. It was very intimate and I had the privilege and honour of being the sole woman in the group of monks. The 17th Karmapa was staying at the institute at that time. I would frequently look out for, and get glimpses of him on the rooftop with another of his teacher-students, Khenpo Tsultrim Gyatso Rinpoche.
This was my first tantric empowerment within Vajrayana Buddhism. At the time, I only partially understood its significance, but I knew that it marked a threshold. Vajrasattva is a purification practice, and it felt like a cleansing of all that had come before, into this new life and way of being.
Vajrayana Buddhism was no longer simply something I was intellectually studying or emotionally attracted to from afar. I was now formally entering its symbolic and ritual world directly.
A few weeks after that, during the Kagyu Monlam beneath the Bodhi Tree itself, I received my first Highest Yoga Tantra empowerment from the Karmapa: the empowerment of Chakrasamvara. At that time, the 17th Karmapa and the Kagyu Monlam was still quite intimate and next to the Bodhi tree at the main temple.
That experience affected me profoundly.
Soon afterwards, I began having vivid and psychologically intense spiritual experiences unlike anything I had previously encountered. While staying in my room in Bodh Gaya, it sometimes felt as though the deity Chakrasamvara itself was somehow present, not simply as imagination or visualisation, but with an overwhelming energetic and emotional reality. Often, these experiences became intertwined symbolically with the face and presence of the Karmapa himself, particularly in relation to tantric imagery of sacred union. I would go into union and embrace with this energy and vision and it was very orgasmically blissful.
At the time I found these experiences deeply confusing.
Part of me felt spiritually awed by them. Another part questioned how literally or symbolically I should interpret them. I had entered a spiritual culture where dreams, deity practices, karmic visions, symbolic experiences, and subtle energies were taken seriously, yet I still carried the rational habits of Western intellectual life within me.
I did not know where psychology ended and spiritual experience began. I also felt again that sense of longing for a tantric union partner as I had read about when back in London, and whom I had asked Thrangu Rinpoche to help me find previously.
These experiences did not arise in isolation and were part of a karmic interdependent flow.
“Giving Birth to a Black Crow” Profound Dream in sacred site of Sarnath, India
Even before the 17th Karmapa’s first Chakrasamvara empowerment in Bodh Gaya in his lifetime, while staying near Sarnath near Thrangu Rinpoche’s Vajra Vidya Institute, I had experienced a dream so powerful that it would remain with me for years afterwards.
At that time, I was staying in a small basic room at small Nyingma monastery nearby. One night, I dreamt vividly that the 17th Karmapa (who was staying at the Vajra Vidya Institute) appeared before me and spoke in an unusually loud and unmistakably clear voice.
Again and again, he repeated:
“You will give birth to a black crow.
You will give birth to a black crow.”
The dream felt extraordinarily vivid and emotionally charged but also meaningful. When I woke, it remained with me almost physically, as though it carried some deeper symbolic force that had not faded with sleep.
Naturally, I wanted to understand what it meant.
I spoke cautiously to a few people around me about the dream, but some advised me not to take it too seriously. They warned that senior teachers would probably dismiss dreams as unimportant mental projections.
Nevertheless, I decided to ask directly about it. So I went to the Vajra Vidya Institute and asked Thrangu Rinpoche. He did not dismiss it at all.
Instead, after listening quietly, he instructed me to go to the river and “save some lives.”
I understood immediately that he meant the Buddhist practice of purchasing animals destined for slaughter and releasing them.
Instructed to Save Lives: Buying Catfish on the sacred River Ganges
So, together with a Western Buddhist nun I asked to come along with me, we took a rickshaw to the local bustling fish market in the ancient Hindu town of Varanasi. By the time we arrived late in the afternoon, almost all the fish had already been sold. The only ones remaining were several enormous black catfish crowded together in a bucket with very little water.
The moment I saw them, I felt an immediate symbolic connection and that I need to save their lives.
Their dark black-blue colour instantly reminded me of the black crow symbolism associated with the Karmapa lineage and with Mahakala, the protector deity linked to the Karmapas.
I immediately bought the fish and hired a small boat to take us out onto the sacred River Ganges. While floating there, we released them back into the river, chanting aspirations.
As the fish disappeared beneath the water, I experienced a sudden and powerful sensation inside myself, almost as though some heavy emotional or energetic tension had been released simultaneously from my body and mind.
I could not explain it rationally.
But the entire sequence of events – the dream, the fish, the river, and the release – felt deeply karmically interconnected in ways I could only intuit rather than fully understand at that time.
The 17th Karmapa’s advice: “a profound and excellent dream, and not enough time to explain”
A few weeks later, when I got a private audience with the 17th Karmapa, I was finally able to describe the “black crow” dream to him directly.
Again, I half expected that he might dismiss it. But he did not. Like Thrangu Rinpoche had, he listened carefully and told me that:
“It is a profound and good dream. There is not enough time then to explain its meaning fully now, but you should feel positive about it.”
I left the audience both reassured but also mystified.
I still did not truly understand what the dream meant. Yet the fact that neither Thrangu Rinpoche nor the Karmapa had dismissed it gave it a greater emotional significance for me. However, I then put the dream to the back of my mind, confident that its profound meaning would be revealed when the time was ripe and ready.
Within Tibetan Buddhism, the black crow carries deep symbolic meaning connected to the Karmapa lineage itself. The crow is associated with Mahakala, the protector deity traditionally linked to the Karmapas, and appears repeatedly throughout the mythology and history surrounding the lineage. As the crows had appeared on my window sill urging me on mentally to meet the Karmapa and take refuge with him.
At the time, I only partially understood these symbolic layers intellectually.
But emotionally, I sensed that something profound was unfolding beneath the visible surface of my life: something connected to devotion, karma, spiritual longing, projection, symbolism, and identity in ways I could not yet separate clearly.
What I did know was this: my inner life was becoming increasingly intense, visionary, and psychologically transformative.
And I was moving deeper and deeper into a spiritual world that was beginning to reshape not only my beliefs, but my very understanding of reality itself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Compassion in Action under the Bodhi Tree: Joining the 17th Karmapa in the Lifetime Vow Not to Eat Animals and romantic ideals of community shattered
I attended three Kagyu Monlams in Bodh Gaya during my time in India, between 2005-8. At the first Kagyu Monlam I attended in 2006-7, the 17th Karmapa gave several important teachings, including the Chakrasamvara empowerment that deeply affected me spiritually. But one particular teaching would alter the direction of my daily life and diet permanently.
It was his teaching on vegetarianism.
At that time, this was an unusually direct, and even radical, position within parts of Tibetan Buddhist culture in exile. Historically, Tibetan societies had often depended on animal products because of the harsh climate and limited agriculture of the Tibetan plateau but also (I later discovered) due to the Gelugpa stance on eating animals (they had authoritarian power in Tibet from the 17th Century). Meat consumption had therefore become normalised within many communities.
But the Karmapa approached the issue differently.
Speaking beneath the Bodhi Tree, he explained that despite Tibet’s difficult conditions, many of the greatest Tibetan Buddhist masters had nevertheless chosen not to eat meat whenever possible. He spoke particularly about the history of the Karma Kagyu lineage and the tradition of strict vegetarianism established from the time of the Seventh Karmapa onward within the Great Encampment of the Karmapas.
He explained that the Karmapas had historically prohibited the consumption of slaughtered animals within their encampments, and that compassion toward living beings could not be separated from genuine Buddhist practice.
What struck me most was the intelligence, originality and moral clarity with which he spoke.
He did not present vegetarianism as a lifestyle health preference or a symbolic gesture. He framed it as an ethical responsibility rooted directly in compassion and in the Mahayana Buddhist commitment not to harm sentient beings unnecessarily. And how that was present even with the Vajrayana Tantric context too.
He also challenged the tendency within religious traditions to justify harmful behaviour simply because respected teachers in previous eras may have acted differently under difficult circumstances. He argued that ordinary practitioners should not use the actions of highly realised masters as excuses for their own ordinary worldly attachments and habits.
I remember him saying very directly that the previous 8th Karmapa has stated that to follow the Karma Kagyu lineage while continuing to eat slaughtered animals unnecessarily, then one was contradicting the ethical foundation of the lineage itself and one could not call oneself “Karma Kagyu”.
Then he asked those present who wished to commit themselves never again to eating slaughtered animals to raise their hands and take a lifetime vow.
Without hesitation, I raised mine. The decision felt completely natural.
Even before encountering Buddhism, I had already been deeply troubled by cruelty toward animals and increasingly aware of environmental destruction connected to industrial meat production. During my philosophy studies in London, I had read thinkers such as Peter Singer and had already begun reflecting seriously on ethics, suffering, and humanity’s treatment of animals.
But hearing the Karmapa speak beneath the Bodhi Tree transformed these concerns from intellectual positions into a personal vow.
From that moment onward, I committed myself to lifelong vegetarianism and veganism whenever possible.
In the years that followed, that vow became much more than a dietary choice. It became part of my spiritual identity and daily discipline: a constant reminder that spiritual life could not remain merely philosophical or symbolic, but had to express itself through concrete ethical actions and ordinary everyday behaviour.
Religious Ideals and Human Contradiction
After the teaching on vegetarianism, I felt deeply inspired and emotionally uplifted. The clarity and courage with which the Karmapa spoke about compassion toward animals moved me profoundly. At that time, very few senior Tibetan Buddhist lineage holders were speaking publicly and directly about these issues in such uncompromising ethical terms.
Within some Tibetan Buddhist traditions like the Gelugpa lineage (whose most famous teacher is the 14th Dalai Lama) , there existed a much more ambiguous attitude toward meat eating. Some teachers and practitioners maintained that eating meat was acceptable provided one had not personally killed the animal oneself, or that exceptions could be made for health reasons. These debates had existed for many years within Tibetan Buddhism, particularly because of Tibet’s historical dependence on animal products due to its harsh climate and geography. But especially due to the Gelugpa lineage stance on it.
But for many practitioners, including myself, these justifications increasingly felt ethically uncomfortable.
The Karmapa’s teaching cut through those ambiguities with unusual directness. He did not merely speak about compassion as an abstract ideal while quietly maintaining contradictory personal habits. He challenged people to align their daily behaviour with the ethical principles they publicly claimed to believe in.
That was what made the teaching feel so powerful.
And yet, almost immediately afterwards, I began noticing something else.
In the cafes, guesthouses, and restaurants around Bodh Gaya, I overheard conversations among Tibetans and foreign students who had attended the teaching. Some people spoke enthusiastically about changing their diet. Others seemed visibly uncomfortable or resistant. A few dismissed the teaching altogether and openly said they intended to continue eating meat regardless.
This disturbed me more than I expected.
Until then, I had still been carrying a somewhat romanticised image of spiritual communities: an assumption that people who devoted their lives to Buddhism, especially those who followed great teachers, would naturally try to embody the teachings sincerely in their daily lives.
But I began realising that religious identity and genuine practice were not always the same thing.
There were people who revered the Karmapa publicly, attended his teachings, requested blessings from him, and spoke of devotion toward him, yet privately ignored some of the ethical guidance he considered most important.
Later, the Karmapa himself would even state publicly that the continued eating of slaughtered animals by those who followed him negatively affected not only the animals themselves, but also his own health and lifespan. Yet even then, many continued unchanged.
This became one of the first moments where I began to understand something difficult but important about spiritual life: spiritual communities are still made up of ordinary human beings, with attachments, contradictions, hypocrisies, resistances, and weaknesses.
Devotion alone did not necessarily transform people.
Nor did belonging to a religious tradition automatically make individuals more ethical, self-aware, or compassionate.
In some ways, this realisation saddened me. Part of me had arrived in India carrying idealised hopes about spiritual purity and authenticity, perhaps as a reaction against the emotional emptiness and materialism I had experienced in my former life in London.
But slowly, I was beginning to see that human nature followed people everywhere, even into monasteries, pilgrimage sites, and spiritual movements.
At the same time, this did not diminish the importance of the teaching itself. If anything, it made me admire the Karmapa’s position even more.
He was willing to speak clearly about an issue that many others avoided because it was culturally sensitive or unpopular. He was willing to challenge deeply ingrained habits within his own tradition. And he consistently returned to the subject over the years that followed, continuing to advocate compassion toward animals, vegetarianism, and environmental responsibility long before such issues became widely discussed globally.
That consistency left a deep impression on me.
Even now, many years later, I still consider those teachings among the most meaningful I ever received. They permanently shaped not only my spiritual outlook, but also the practical way I chose to live my life every single day.
Between 2024 and 2025, the 17th Karmapa returned to this theme in some of his most original and detailed teachings on the subject, drawing from both Tibetan Buddhist and early Buddhist sources. I voluntarily spent many hours transcribing these teachings from the original Tibetan, alongside the English translation, and compiled them into a free downloadable e-booklet entitled Meat is Murder.
By then, however, I had already been institutionally blacklisted and defamed, both online and privately, as a survivor of a well-known Karma Kagyu Rinpoche. As a result, no one seemed willing to publish, promote, or support the work. Perhaps the content itself was also difficult for many. Within Karma Kagyu circles, many were still unable, or unwilling, to recognise the need to stop eating animals. More on that later.
Looking back, I can see that the Kagyu Monlam of 2006-7 represented two parallel awakenings within me.
The first was spiritual inspiration: the beauty of devotion, pilgrimage, sacred places, practice, and profound teachings beneath the Bodhi Tree.
The second was the beginning of disillusionment: the gradual understanding that spiritual institutions and communities were still deeply human, imperfect, political, and often contradictory.
Both lessons would prove equally important in the years that followed.
During this same period, I also began formally entering more deeply into Vajrayana Buddhist practice.”
Merging Minds at Shechen Monastery, Bodh Gaya and Protection from a Pack of Black Guard Dogs
During that Kagyu Monlam, I stayed at the guest house of Shechen Monastery, a Nyingma monastery in Bodh Gaya associated with Shechen Rabjam Rinpoche. At that time, the 17th Karmapa was also staying there, in a special room for guest teachers on the top floor of the monastery, next to the guesthouse building, before returning to the Vajravidya Institute in Sarnath. This was before Mingyur Rinpoche’s Tergar Monastery was opened, where the 17th Karmapa would then stay.
On the 17th Karmapa’s last night there, I woke suddenly in the early hours of the morning, around 3 a.m. The room was dark and silent, but I had the unmistakable sensation that his presence was there with me. It felt as though an energy body, very much like the 17th Karmapa, had entered the room and merged with my own subtle body or mind.
As I became fully awake, I vividly saw or sensed this luminous, subtle form withdrawing from my body and leaving the room. The experience was not like an ordinary dream. It had the clarity and force of something happening on a deeper, energetic level. At the time, I felt that the Karmapa had, through the power of mind or subtle body, entered my room and merged with my mind.
Afterwards, I did not speak much about it or try to analyse it too closely. I simply held it quietly, as one of those strange, intimate, and powerful experiences that can occur around great spiritual masters, especially in sacred places and during intense periods of devotion and practice.
The following day, the 17th Karmapa was due to leave Shechen Monastery and return to Sarnath. As was customary, a small number of people gathered outside to see him off. Shechen Rabjam Rinpoche was also there to say goodbye as the Karmapa came downstairs. I stood among the few people waiting, holding a white khata in my hand, as is the tradition when greeting or offering respect to a great lama.
Then, as he was leaving, he turned and looked directly into my eyes. The gaze was clear, unmistakable, and deeply knowing. In that moment, I felt a kind of silent, telepathic recognition pass between us. It seemed to confirm what I had experienced the night before: that it had indeed been him, entering my room and my mind in some subtle way.
Rather than feeling disturbed, I felt reassured. There was a sense of being protected, watched over, and inwardly held by his presence. It gave me a feeling of safety and connection, as though he was aware of me in a way that went far beyond ordinary social interaction or formal religious devotion.
After he left, I also decided that it would be my final day at the guest house. Wherever he was going, I felt moved to follow. And so, I prepared to leave Shechen too, drawn by that same powerful thread of devotion, recognition, and unseen connection.At that time, it was quite normal for devotees like myself to follow the 17th Karmapa from place to place, whenever circumstances allowed. If one had the time, resources, and devotion to do so, then naturally one would try to remain close to the guru, attend teachings, receive blessings, and stay within the field of his presence. I was certainly not the only person doing this, and it was not regarded as strange, inappropriate, or intrusive.
There was never any suggestion then that I should not be there, or that following the Karmapa’s public teachings and movements in this way was a form of stalking or harassment. On the contrary, it was part of the living culture of devotion around great lamas: people travelled, waited, gathered, offered khatas, received blessings, and moved from one teaching place to another.
It was only years later, after I experienced a deep betrayal by people connected with another teacher I had become closely involved with, that this ordinary devotional practice was questioned, distorted, and weaponised against me. What had once been understood as devotion, faith, and a sincere wish to remain close to the guru and get teachings from them, was later misrepresented, defamed, and slandered as something sinister. I will return to that painful betrayal, and the false narratives created around it, in later chapters.
In the early hours of the morning around 4.30am, after the 17th Karmapa had left Shechen Monastery, I also prepared to leave. I booked a train that would take me back towards Varanasi and Sarnath, where I hoped to go to the Vajravidya Institute. Since Shechen was a monastery, and I had arranged for a taxi driver to collect me outside the monastery gates, I had no reason to think there would be any danger in walking the short distance from the guest house to the entrance.
But when I stepped outside the guest house door, it was still pitch black. No one was awake. No one was around. The monastery grounds, which during the day had felt peaceful and protected, suddenly felt vast, silent, and exposed.
I began walking towards the gate. Then, without warning, I heard barking — not from one dog, but from several. Loud, deep, aggressive barking. I turned and saw five or six huge black guard dogs running towards me at full speed.
In that moment, my mind almost stopped. I love dogs, but this was different. These were not friendly village dogs wandering sleepily in the early morning. They were large, powerful dogs , charging directly at me in the dark and seemed to be there to protect the monastery. For a few moments, I genuinely thought: this may be it. This may be the day I die.
Instinctively, I stopped moving. The dogs reached me and surrounded me in a circle. I stood completely still, trying not to panic, trying not to trigger them further. Their barking gradually stopped. I let them smell me, keeping my body calm even though inside I was filled with fear.
Then, very slowly and cautiously, I began to walk again towards the monastery gate. It was probably one of the longest walks of my life, though in ordinary time it could only have been a few minutes. The dogs followed me closely as I moved, step by step, through the darkness. I kept my breath steady and my movements slow, doing everything I could not to startle them.
At last, I reached the gate. The taxi driver was waiting outside. As soon as I passed through, I felt an immense wave of relief. I was alive. I had made it through.
Looking back, the whole scene carried a strange symbolic force: the darkness, the black dogs, the sense of danger, protection, and passage. In Tibetan Buddhism, black dogs can evoke the world of Dharma protectors, guardians, and fierce energies. In hindsight, I could not help wondering whether this too was connected with the Karmapa’s protection. Perhaps the direct gaze he had given me only hours earlier had been a sign that he was watching over me. I felt that it had been that and that he was protecting me in some way.
What I knew for sure was that I had survived another unexpected ordeal. I said goodbye to Shechen Monastery and set off towards the train station, slightly shaken but grateful, beginning the long journey back to Varanasi and Sarnath.
This would not be the last time dogs came into my life in India though. A few years later, as I was preparing to leave India again, after the COVID lockdown and various incidents had made it unsafe and unwise to remain there, including the 17th Karmapa’s long-awaited never to happen return. Unsure if I was making the right decision, a street dog entered the frame, who “helped” me quickly decide I had to leave as soon as possible and that it would be positively dangerous to stay.”
Excerpt from Indestructible Devotion: A Lone Woman’s Journey of Courage, Love and Liberation in Tantric Buddhism (Autobiographical Notes. Adele Tomlin) Copyright 2026.