Throwdown with Fear

Just beyond the pools of light, the wall of black began and continued on for eternity. Fanged wolves and slithering snakes lurked just beyond my vision.

At night in my room when the night swallowed up the world, just outside the window could be a thief. A murderer could be tiptoeing just beyond the bushes, a curved knife in hand.

The dark.

The dark - fear would strike my heart and course through my veins when I needed to go to sleep at night, or dash through a dark patch from one building to another, or walk through the woods on a moonless night. Horror movies and news stories had taught me that the greatest fear was not some twisted monster, but an evil-hearted human. Someone who killed without reason, someone with hatred in his or her heart.

So my fear grew and grew beyond my childhood, and as I got older, the scheme of just WHO was waiting out there in the darkness became even more twisted and terrifying.

One night when I was fifteen, I had to run an errand from one building to another. My destination was down the hill, through a lawn, beyond a row of trees. A sea of total and complete pitch black stood between me and my goal. I had no flashlight. I had to go. Now.

My heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I took a deep breath.

I ran.

I ran down the hill, past the trees, and suddenly I halted and knelt down on the grass and fell over my legs, my arms outstretched in some kind of strange obeisance. I took deep breaths, the scent of grass filling my nostrils. The world seemed to whirl unsteadily beneath me.

I'm fed up with you, fear of the dark. 

So sick of you. 

I'm done. 

I sang the Nrisimhadeva Prayers in my mind, which call out to the Lord for protection in body and heart from evil.

I lay there, the seconds growing to minutes. The breeze rustled by and caused the banana leaves to chatter and murmur. Crickets hummed. The wind sighed. The grass was cool beneath my fingers, arms, body.

No one attacked me.

Ummmm....

Duh.

And if anyone DID, I was still protected, for even if my body was hurt, my spirit never would be.

In one breath, I rose to my feet and dusted off the blades of grass stuck to my palms. I looked around at the pitch black, determined where I needed to go, and strode in that direction.

I never feared the dark again.

Even when I went to a haunted house for Halloween. Kind of a bummer. 

Open Heart

Tonight the weight of the world settled on my shoulders.

I walked out of yoga class heavy, burdened. The class was lovely, but whenever I take a yoga class the physical moves seem to open up the metaphysical heart.

So when my heart opened, the burden settled in. 

I felt overwhelmed by certain painful conditioning while growing up - the state of my fragmented family, how my insecurities and dysfunction affect my professional, personal, and spiritual life. Fear of perpetuating a painful legacy for myself and my family. 

I looked for music to soothe my heart. I came across a deeply Christian song, about how Lord Jesus Christ shed blood to save our souls. The song soared and enveloped me with softness and power. 

I drove down to the shore and watched the sun set upon the ocean in a blaze of fire. I felt as though the burden was lifting from my heart because the Lord was carrying that burden for me. What love. What amazing love. 

We all carry our burdens, we all carry our "crosses." How amazing that our Lord is so loving, so kind, so gentle, that when we simply turn to Him with open hands and a soft heart, He is so willing to carry our burdens. He heals our hearts, makes us whole, allows the impossible to become possible. 

I do not have the answer. I do not believe my burden is gone forever. But I had an experience this evening that the load can be made lighter, and my heart will be made stronger. May I forever turn to my beloved Lord for grace and healing. 

And next time I go to yoga class and my heart opens, may a river of joy come flooding out. 

I'm Not Alone

I had wanted to get married since I was a young girl. But I reeeeally wanted to get married for about five years straight.

I prayed.

I waited.

I asked for advice.

I read books. Lots of 'em.

I wrote letters and lists and petitions to Krishna.

I cried. A lot. There were months and years of silence, of endless silence.

When I was 26, I was living in Mayapur, India, facing much pain and longing in my heart to simply be married and move on in life. I prayed and took solace in Radha Madhava.

I stayed on to teach middle school English, which would take me well into the thick of an insane Mayapur summer. When all the pilgrims filtered away from the festivals and Mayapur had settled into a sleepy and kind of gently abandoned town, my heart began to unfurl. I lived in this big old building on the edge of Mayapur, on the second floor. I would teach during the (insanely hot) day, then come home. I lived alone. I ate alone. I wrote alone. Everything,

alone.

Day after day, I began to experience - I'm not alone.

I have me.

I have Krishna.

I love this company. Love. If I was to spend the rest of my life with anyone, I am a pretty darn lovely person, and Krishna is too.

In my journals, the topic of marriage was conspicuous by its absence. All my life I had filled the pages of my journal with stories and realizations and prayers of love and marriage.

And while I had always written about these particular topics as well, I noticed that ALL I wrote about seemed to be the beauty of the sunset over Mayapur fields, the naughtiness of one of my students, the glory of God and how He loves me. I experienced trust blossom in my heart.

I was so content being on my own, I was happy to continue this way for much longer, to explore my career, to develop friendships, cultivate my service...

And of course, "When you're not looking for it, Krishna gives it to you,"

I had this sense that Krishna was sending me someone soon, simply because I was content on my own. It's a funny thing. As soon as we become whole and satisfied on our own, Krishna sends us someone.

Yup, let's see, precisely ten days after I left Mayapur, I met my future husband, who is also a whole and beautiful devotee of Krishna.

One + One = Three.

Twine of Grace

One twig snaps with a flick of the fingers.

A bundle of twigs is near impossible to break.

This is my meditation as I prepare for my wedding. Both Ghanashyam and I understand that marriage in this day and age can snap with a flick of pain and hardship. We need the support of those we love and respect - our friends, mentors, well-wishers - in order to remain strong and unbreakable.

A wedding is about bringing together all of the beautiful twigs of our loved ones, and for us to be tied together with the twine of grace by the Divine Couple Themselves - Sri Radha and Krishna.

When the insanity of wedding planning sets in, I remember this image. I remember why we're spending this time, money, and energy on one, maybe two days.

Blessings.

Connection.

Love.

Bookworm

I eat books for breakfast.

As a teenager, I used to camp out in bookstores for hours and hours at a time, losing myself among the maze of shelves. I would read sitting on the floor until my bum would ache. When the final Harry Potter book came out, I bought the book and read for 14 hours straight - taking hurried breaks for meals and bathroom - and then read the final words just as dawn was breaking. I have been known to pull all-nighters when a book captures my heart.

But.

This bookworm is picky.

I don't digest textbooks well. I'm not quite sure how I made it through university - I have been known to get verrrrry sleepy reading textbooks. Several times when I was reading textbooks I fell asleep with my head on the open pages and drooled on those algebraic equations and that 18th century literature. Yes, I drooled. Sigh.

This sleepiness even applies to scripture. If I read dense philosophy, I have the physiological reaction of my eyelids getting very, very... heavy. My brain powers down.

I have been frustrated about this for years, especially in regards to scripture. I get bookworm indigestion! Try as I might, I struggle with sleepiness and disengagement.

Recently, I have been cultivating a practice of writing in a Soul journal as an everyday sadhana, as a way to connect with the Lord. It was suggested that I do some prereading before writing, so for several weeks I read from a little inspirational book by Thomas Merton, a Christian mystic.

Then, upon the inspiration of my siksha guru, Gopa Vrindapala Prabhu, I decided to read from the Bhagavad Gita.

The past several nights, I have been astonished.

The Gita has been a page-turner.

I want to just keep reading. I find myself saying, "Okay, one more verse. Oh, this one is the last one, then I'll stop. Okay.... just ONE more..."

I am in shock. Seriously. I have read these verses before, but now somehow I am just intrigued by them. It's not even that I'm using these words directly in my life, or that I HAVE to read and apply these words, or that I have a quota to read... I'm just fascinated! Totally fascinated by the modes of nature, the soul, the Supersoul within the heart...

I'm not quite at the point of reading for 14 hours straight through the night. I'm just proud that my head is not dive bombing and there is no drooling involved. I'm just glad to be very much awake and alive, leaning in to the Bhagavad Gita, my eyes running across the page like a wondrous little girl.

I want that to be my reality. I want to get swallowed up by the magic of Truth.

I Am Here

I woke up at 5am and checked my email and Facebook. I know, lovely way to start the day, right? Well in fact, it was lovely! I read an email that offered personal growth wisdom. Facebook was brimming with beautiful news and pictures - awards for my friends, gatherings of communities to celebrate the lives of special people, the smiling and effulgent faces of people with so much love etched in their eyes. Announcements and exciting travel plans and worldwide experiences of kirtan, sharing Krishna with the world...

When I placed my phone on a table and readied myself to begin my morning mantra meditation, I felt a little squeeze of sadness in my heart: I have nothing to share with the world that's that special.

I leaned against the wall and began to murmur the holy name, fingering my beads. Tiredness fell over me like a soft sheet. So I gently laid my body down. I slipped under the soft waves of tiredness, half-conscious. Nevertheless, my murmurs continued on, the holy name kept spiraling onward, my fingers kept moving across my wooden meditation beads.

Something interesting happened. I seemed to float out of my body and have this vision of seeing myself from above, lying there chanting japa, the predawn light slowly filtering into the room. Suddenly I was surrounded by the words: I am here, and I am chanting the holy name. 

The feeling behind those words was:

How glorious! How triumphant! I am complete. I am enough. I am here, I chanting the holy name. 

I am here.

I am chanting the holy name.

How glorious. 

For half an hour, the holy name encircled me, encircled me, and those words kept surrounding me, surrounding me. I kept coming back into my space on the floor, then zooming out to look at myself from the ceiling, the words reverberating: I am here, I am chanting the holy name.

I am enough. 

Dude, I was lying down, half-awake. Not exactly an accomplishment to trumpet on Facebook. And yet the holy name was so loving and so kind. Even though I was lying down and half-asleep, none of that mattered. I felt that the Lord saw my sincerity, my desire to chant, and that tiny little spark - no matter how hidden under sheets of sleepiness - was as pure and brilliant as the sun.

At last when I rose from the floor, I went to wash my face. I felt washed with gratitude and wonder. I didn't feel sticky or groggy or embarrassed. I just felt grateful. Grateful for another day to spend with the holy name, and that is enough, I am enough, He is enough. 

The Cost of Love

"Okay Maddalena, we love you. We're praying for you," I said. I gave one last wave. My future mother-in-law was lying on a hospital bed, dressed in a blue gown. She smiled, but I could see the tense lines around her eyes.

Maddalena waved back with her fingers. "It'll be over soon," she said. "Then we're done."

Rick and I left the hospital and walked out into the gray, windy, and rainy day. The surgery would take several hours to complete, as well as recovery time to wake up from the anesthesia. We would return when the surgery was complete.

The thought flitted across my mind: Maddalena would love to be greeted with flowers when she woke up from surgery. Maybe we could go to the store and buy some.

When we got home, thought, I got absorbed in work and lost track of time. After hours had passed, I glanced at the clock and my heart sunk - oh dear, much too late to go to a florist shop.

Rick and I put on our shoes and walked out the front door. I saw that Maddalena's hibiscus bush was blooming brilliantly, almost in defiance of such a gloomy day. The giant orange flowers twirled playfully, their centers a bright red, their stamens reaching out as if to say, "Hello!"

It is described that the flower represents Krishna's, or God's, smiling face. Maybe that's why we smile when we see them. I smiled and picked a hibiscus.

When Rick and I reached the hospital, I put the flower into a paper cup and filled it with water from the tap. We waited a long time, anxiously checking the computer screen to see when Maddalena would be ready for visitors.

At long last, we were ushered over by the doctor to discuss her condition - she was doing very well. Soon after a nurse guided us to Maddalena's unit. Rick entered first, and he held her hand. She spoke softly, her movements heavy.

Then she turned to me, and when she saw the flower, a smile blossomed on her face. I was struck by the sudden light that shone from her eyes. "Oh! You brought me a flower! How beautiful!" I sensed she knew exactly where this flower had come from, but it didn't seem to matter that she had grown the flower herself. I handed her the paper cup and she beamed. She then had me place the cup on the little hospital table.

Maddalena is a woman of great spirit and also movement. Not to be slowed down by an intensive surgery, she insisted on getting dressed in her own clothes right then, and with a call for a wheelchair to assist her out of the hospital, we were ready to go. "Where's my flower?" She inquired. "Bring my flower,"

I dutifully brought the flower.

When we got home, I helped Maddalena climb the stairs to her room to rest. When she was lying down in bed, she said, "Bring my flower, put it here,"

So I brought up her flower and placed it on her nightstand. I placed her cool hand in mine and sang to her prayers for protection, then gently slipped away.

In the ancient scripture the Bhagavad Gita, God says that one need only offer Him a leaf, flower, piece of fruit, or water with love, and He will accept it. This is the definition of bhakti, or loving devotion. I had given Maddalena a flower from her own bush, in a paper cup. And yet she saw the little drop of love with which that flower was offered, and that is what she treasured. Her heart was deeply moved by this flower, she had smiled, and her spirits had lifted because she had felt my love for her.

God can be satisfied with a crown of diamonds. He can be satisfied with a wildflower. He could be satisfied with a single drop of water. All that it takes is a drop of our own love, to offer what He already owns back to Him, and God's heart is satisfied. Amazing. The creator of the universe is satisfied by a wildflower.

This is bhakti. Bhakti costs nothing.

Love costs nothing.

Nothing.

I believe that bhakti is the expression of the heart, the soul. Bhakti is so simple, so breathtakingly, sublimely simple.

Inspire - to Breathe

Drip drops of rain pattered on my windshield. I careened around the corners of mountains, twisting the steering wheel, lost in thought. Music blasted from speakers and every so often I tapped my thigh in rhythm.

The rain softened, then faded away and the road became dry. The landscape was enshrouded in a white mist. I turned a bend and suddenly - the world lit up with gold. The mist shifted and moved at the feet of the mountains like a deep ocean, the sun a halo of gold just beyond the hills. My eyes widened.

"Oh. My. God." I said to my Jeep. I turned off the music. 

I picked up my phone camera and pulled over on the side of the road. Cars whooshed past. I took pictures, but this little electronic device did not do the light, the experience, the moment justice. How could it? How? 

I drove back onto the road, and in several miles the world unfolded in a magnificent display of glory. The sun smiled brilliantly, the hills glowing russet and emerald and sage. In the valleys, the clouds danced like golden rivers too joyful to obey gravity. 

"Oh my god. This is amazing. I can't believe this. I'm going to die." 

But then I fell silent. Those words did not encompass what was transpiring in my heart, the deepest essence of how my soul seemed to be at peace, to breathe, to be inspired by the glory of God. 

Unbidden, the words of one of my favorites songs came to my mind: "Mama mana mandire...." May You reside in the temple of my heart.

.

I sang this song on repeat for over half an hour. I got to witness the sky become pink, rose, azure, and fade into the velvet deep blue studded with diamond stars. 

My Lord. You are so beautiful. How unfathomable that you are so great, encompassing the magnificence of the world with a spark of your splendor. And even more magnificent is that You have taken up residence within my heart. Although my heart is poorly tended, messy, and dark, You are so patient, so kind. You are happy to observe, to always be there as my best friend, unconditionally. I pray that one day you shine within the sky of my heart like you did that day. 

Soul Surfer

Dear Radhanath Swami,

Please accept my heartfelt respects. All glories to our beloved Srila Prabhupad.

Surfing is one of those rare sports where the conditions are left up to the mysterious ways of Mother Earth. One needs a clean, solid wave to surf, and this is dependent upon so many factors such as the wind, floor depth, the moon's position, and so on. So when the surf is up in Hawaii, it is not uncommon for locals to call out from work and head out to the ocean with their surfboards. Hardcore surfers are always searching for the perfect wave, simply because it’s so unpredictable.

There is a term “soul surfer,” which means that although these surfers may enter competitions, they do not only aim to win. Soul surfing suggests that there is a deeper motive and even spirituality to waiting for the perfect wave and riding an energy that is beyond one’s power.

Today, on your Vyasa Puja, I am meditating how the ocean is the Lord, the waves are His grace, and you are a soul surfer. I experience you as a rare soul who has left behind what you “should” do and answered the call of the Lord, wherever His call has lead you. You have crisscrossed the world countless times, often suffering so much physically. I believe I speak for everyone here that when we hear that you are sick and in pain, our hearts break. And yet your soul calls you on, the Lord calls you on. Your eyes are trained to your own heart, to Sri Radha Gopinath, to Srila Prabhupad, always waiting, always waiting for the moment that the surf is up, the moment that They call you. And when the time comes, you answer. I sense that They trust you so deeply to answer Their call that They have begun to call you more and more, in service of Truth and Love.

Today I am deeply inspired by your example, the way in which you live your life with surrender, both waiting for grace as well as responding to the call. I once saw a father teaching his son how to surf – the little boy was on the board, and when a gentle wave would come, the father would maneuver the board into place, stand up, and pull the little boy up with him. In this way, I feel that you have brought me along this path of grace, pulling me up when I have no strength and no idea what I’m doing. Ever kind, ever patient, you are teaching me through your love, strength, and example how to answer the call of the Lord.

May this year be filled with many, many waves of grace.

With love, respect, and gratitude,

Bhakti lata dasi

Visit to the Temple

I am back in Hawaii with my parents for some time before I get married.

Hawaii is my monastery, a place of quiet, a place where I go deep within. It's just me and my parents here - temples and devotees and festivals are very far away. 

As a young teenager in Hawaii, my desire for Krishna consciousness became a blazing fire in the isolation of this island. I wanted only to move away to live in a community of likeminded devotees of Krishna. 

But I couldn't. I was underage! So for five years I lived here, burning to move away.

In those five years' time, though, I searched for God everywhere I could find Him. Nature became my temple. 

Whenever I beheld the beauty of nature that was so profound that it moved my soul, I would sing the song, "Mama Mana Mandire" - May You, my dear Lord, reside within the temple of my heart. This song became my anthem, long after I had moved away from Hawaii, even when I lived near a physical temple. I never wanted to take God for granted. Nature became the reminder that God is everywhere, including my own heart.  

I gradually lost my tradition to sing this song. Many years have passed since I have meditated in this way.

Tonight, I went to an old haunt of mine, a crest on a mountain where I watched the sun set over two oceans - an ocean of blue silk below and an ocean of orange and pink silk above. I was stunned that such vast beauty would be so silent and yet sing to the entire world - to the water, land, and sky. 

Unbidden, the words came to my lips, "Mama mana mandire..."

May You reside within the temple of my heart. 

I am realizing that God has always and always will reside within my heart. I need only sing to Him, acknowledge His presence, embrace Him.

Perfect Flavor

The process to serve and be served sanctified food with love is called "honoring prasad" in the classical Vaishnava spiritual tradition. I personally consider it to be the culmination of culture and service. I learned this art in my studies in Mayapur, India, so when I helped direct The Radha Krishna Camp for Girls in Brazil, we decided to implement this system of honoring prasad for every single meal for six days.

We may have bit off a liiiiiittle more than we could chew. (No pun intended.)

I taught the girls that for every meal, everyone would sit on mats on the floor in rows. About four girls for each meal would be rotated through the list to be a server of prasad. Each meal, I would train the servers how to approach their fellow campers with each dish and silently and lovingly offer prasad. When all the girls in the camp were completely satisfied, the servers would settle into a short row and then the director of the serve-out (me) got to serve the servers.

On our third day after lunch had been served to the whole camp, I was all set to serve those who had served out. But several of the girls who had been serving lunch kept saying no, no, Bhakti lata sit down, sit down, we will serve you!

I insisted, "No, this is my privilege, this is my service to serve the servers," This was only the third day of camp, and I sensed that the girls needed more training and direction. 

But they were so insistent to serve. At last, I picked one girl, Annapurna,  to serve the servers.

I settled to the rattan mat along with the other servers with curiosity.

Annapurna began to serve us. At one point, she surprised me – several minutes in she handed me a folded napkin. “What’s this?” I asked, shocked.

“It’s to wipe your mouth,” she replied. What? I had never taught her to give out napkins!

Annapurna served attentively and carefully, although naturally there were still some areas to grow into. 

When we had all finished our lunch, I gestured to Annapurna to please sit down.

I would serve her now - I would be the servant of the servant of the servant.

Throughout the process of serving prasad to Annapurna, a competitive urge flared in my heart - I would serve her even better than she had served me! The image kept flashing through my mind of the folded napkin she had placed beside my plate. Determined to outdo her, I brought Annapurna ice cubes for her water. She accepted gratefully. The irony of my lack of humility in being a servant had me laughing to myself and shaking my head.

Once Annapurna had finished lunch and she had pronounced that she was satisfied, an idea struck me. I gathered the other servers and we held a mini-meeting at the dining table.

"Okay girls, let's have a little fun here. Let us discuss Annapurna’s service," I said once we were all gathered. "The goal of serving prasad is to be like salt - absolutely necessary and at the same time completely invisible. If we were to rate Annapurna in terms of her service being like salt, then what is one and what is ten on a scale from 1-10?”

“Ten is best, one is not good?” one girl ventured.

"Think about it, if Annapurna's service is like salt…”

“Ah!" another girl exclaimed, "Ten is too much salt, one is too little,”

“Exactly. What is five?”

“Perfectly balanced, right in the middle.”

“Yes. So we’re each going to give feedback to Annapurna. We'll rate her service on the salt scale from 1-10 and then offer some comments. Do you agree with this, Annapurna?”

"Yes," she replied. 

Girls gave feedback to Annapurna that she had been a little too salty - too many questions, too times being offered the same dish. One girl appreciated Annapurna's attentive kindness and careful mood. Annapurna received her feedback with a stoic face, her blue eyes clear and grave.

"Annapurna," I said. "I experienced your service on the salt scale as a 3.5 – not quite enough salt. I had to often ask for another dish or for more water, and I felt shy and uncomfortable to do so. That said, I was quite surprised when you gave me the napkin! It was thoughtful and sweet. I felt competitive, and decided to serve you even better – I thought, I’m going to serve you ice cubes, so take that!" We all laughed and laughed.

Then I asked Annapurna, “So, if you were to rate my service to you on a scale from 1-10, what would I be? What is your feedback for me?”

"You were a five," she said.

"Please, Annapurna, I want to grow in my service. Please be honest with me,"

"Well," she said, "The ice cubes for my water was nice, you were very attentive, Bhakti lata,"

"Any constructive feedback?" I prodded. The other girls watched in anticipation.

Annapurna fell quiet. At last she said, “You were so serious,”

“Serious?”

“Yes. Maybe you could... smile more,”

I laughed and nodded. “Thank you,” I said. I folded my palms to this girl who had become my guru today. "I shall carefully consider what you have said,"

“Next time," Annapurna said with a grin, "I will fold your napkin into an origami bird,”

We all laughed.

Lower the Mask

- Shel Silverstein

I used to lose my voice a lot. I would lose it especially when I wanted to express myself the most. I have been on nine traveling youth bus tours and on eight of those tours inevitably I would lose my voice. At times my throat hurt to even hold a conversation, I had to whisper. Something I loved to do - participate in and also be asked to lead kirtan - quickly became out of the question.

Today I have been meditating on a quality that I have been meditating on for almost ten years: vulnerability. Vulnerability means being stronger than I ever thought humanly possible. Vulnerability means opening the heart - again, and again, and again - because without living a vulnerable life I am living a shell of a life.

Vulnerability means honesty. It means sharing the heart with clarity, for all of its messy and beautiful glory.

Vulnerability means owning my own messy, beautiful glory. No one else is responsible for the state of my heart.

Vulnerability means opening up the heart, knowing it could be smashed. Or worse, it could be ignored.

Vulnerability is the only way to live because it means getting in touch with the truest part of my soul and living that. It's easy to hide behind a mask of "fineness" because if people criticize or hurt the mask, hey, it's just the mask.

But if people hurt or criticize me - with no mask - then that's, well, ME.

Living life without a mask is damn scary.

And it is the only way to be seen for the real me. No other way of living will satisfy the spirit. How satisfying could it be to be loved for my mask, no matter how beautiful that mask is? Some movie stars go through this quite literally - plastic surgery.

I don't have enough money for plastic surgery or expensive wardrobes or fancy cars. So I put up my own plastic surgery of shutting down and an ingenuine smile. The cost is not money. The cost is living a life half-lived.

When I open my heart to live from a vulnerable place, a truly deep place, then love goes deep into my heart. To be hated and loved for who I am is infinitely more satisfying than to be hated and loved for who I charade to be.

I have lost my voice many times, although less and less over the years. Nevertheless, the journey is everyday, the process of lowering the mask and letting myself speak from the heart. Sing from the heart.

This life ain't no masquerade ball. Lower the masks, lower the masks! and let our eyes open and our voices fly free.

Flower Whispers

(To know more about this Duet, click here. We have switched and now I am writing first, Rukmini doing art in response.)

Art & Words Duet: Day 8

Flower Whispers

slender and graceful with flared petals, like a lady going to a ball
fireworks of color
considered weeds but look like queens
bold artists who paint petals in broad strokes
tiny painters with tiny portraits
grow out of the filth but are never touched by it
grow in tame rows in gardens and fields
grow out of cracks in cement
and in the windowsills of highrises
perched in millions of glass vases
or up high in trees
surrounded by guardians of thorns
or moats of lakes
or fierce scents
each and every one who ever lived
opens her mouth
and whispers silent words,
"glorious and beautiful I am
for hours and days,
but offer me to God
and I will live forever."

Beloved

(To know more about this Duet, click here. We have switched and now I am writing first, Rukmini doing art in response.)

Art and Words Duet: Day 7

Beloved

For years upon years

I searched for The One

I cried many tears

and on the years spun

I looked inside

and looked out there

was tempted to hide

but honed my prayer

When I discovered my Lord

He filled the hole in my heart

I let down my guard

for my heart had become whole 

I became calm and content

spending long days alone

I watched the sun rise and set

Peace covering my soul

Now I didn't even want to get married

For my life was going fine

But of course that was when the Lord carried

me to His beloved

and mine. 

Being Held

Art & Words Duet: Day 6
Being Held
(To know more about this Duet, click here.)

On Friday mornings I bathe, offer puja, and dress Chota ("Little") Radha Murlidhara. After I had set up all the tables and materials for worship, I stepped on the altar to carry the deities to the table. I picked up Murlidhar with my right hand and placed Him in the palm of my left hand.

As I carried Him, I was suddenly wonderstruck. God is the biggest of the big, the Lord of the Universe. God is the smallest of the small, present in every atom. And yet somehow He has made Himself just the right size to fit into the palm of my hand. My dear Radha Murlidhara, may I always be held in the palm of YOUR hands and let me love You and worship You always.

Art by Rukmini Poddar

Hungry for Love

I get it. I get why the worldwide Hare Krishna movement began in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, New York.

It's the people. I've noticed that in New York City, everyone is hungry. Hungry for money, hungry for power, hungry for fun, hungry for meaning, hungry for love. I look in the eyes of anyone passing by on the street and I see that hunger there.

I remember once when I went to join the harinam in Union Square. I stood back to observe the scene - the devotees seated on a mat on the concrete, most people rushing by in blurs, some people stopping to watch. I remember one man in an expensive gray business suit - he stood at a distance, just staring at the harinam party; he had this sharp look that seemed to devour what he was seeing.

Hungry. So hungry.

I guess you need to be on fire to live in this city. This place is insane. If you don't live like your pants are on fire, you will get burned up, no joke. So everyone is searching for something, something, something, what is it? Everyone is looking, wondering, will I find power, money, love?

When people walk through the doors of The Bhakti Center, I've noticed that same hungry look in their eyes, only the look softens into a sparkling curiosity, a sort of wonder and vulnerability. I experience people as open, ready and willing to embrace the Truth of what they are searching for.

The other night in the japa women's group, we were reading a prayer of surrender by Bhaktivinode Thakur. A middle-aged woman was reading this prayer, and her voice began to break. When we chanted japa afterwards, she quietly wept. When we shared our hearts at the end, she shared how when she went through hell in her life, she was realizing that God was there for her.

"Krishna was there for me," she said.

This was a woman who, before this ladies group, had never chanted a round of japa in her life.

Living in New York I am surrounded by these miracles. I get to witness that relief, joy, and peace which comes when the hunger of the heart is filled with Krishna's love. I have so much to learn from these people. I want to be hungry, too. 

Courage to Change

[The Serentiy Series is based upon this prayer: God grant me the courage to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference.] 

Ghanashyam and I bought tickets back in March to visit Alachua, Florida for three whole weeks. Alachua is the community I call home, and I wanted for us to spend quality time there. I reached out to one friend for a place to stay, but as the weeks went by and there was no response, I began to worry. I reached out to one other friend, but that was a no go.

Time began to spin by and my anxiety picked up speed. I began to fret. How could I have lived in Alachua for seven years and feel so hesitant to reach out to anyone there? Was I a stranger? How could no one be willing to help? This was horrible, heartbreaking. 

By the time June came around, I was considering canceling the trip and I had cried numerous times. 

What woe!! 

One night, I was reading the book Learned Optimism by Martin Seligman. I decided to consciously change my thought from: I've always been alone in this world, no one loves me, why would Radhe Shyam do this to me -

to

This is a temporary setback because DUDE I've barely reached out to anyone. Radhe Shyam love me. God loves me. 

Bam. Peace settled in my heart. The next morning I wrote five emails to various friends and mentors who live Alachua, asking for a place for both Ghanashyam and I to stay. I asked with affection, vulnerability, and detachment. 

Within three days almost everyone had responded, most saying that they were busy, but one mentor did say with much kindness that we could stay in his home. 

Now Ghanashyam and I are visiting Alachua and our situation is perfect for our service and for experiencing the overwhelming love of this community. 

Martin Seligman? Thank you, man. God spoke through you to me to help me experience the truth and make a change not only in the situation but within my heart. 

Wake Up to Love

What am I going to do with my life?

Sheez, what a heavy question.

Last night in a pool of light from my bedstand, I was scrawling away in my journal. I'm facing the fact that suddenly I'm unsure what I'm going to do for a meaningful career or service in life. I've been feeling tortured about this lately, seriously.

So I decided to lighten up! I asked myself: "If money were not an issue, what would you love to wake up to every day for the rest of your life?"

Just play around. I dare you. 

I was a bit rusty at first, but then the juices flowed and my pen flew across the page. Of course my old flame profession came back, the one I've been daydreaming about since I was fifteen - photographer for National Geographic.

Then came conscious children's book writer. 

Ooooo, and I LOVE baking muffins, I could open up a prasadam, vegan, gluten-free muffin shop!

Then I really meditated on how I feel deeply grateful and on-purpose when I can facilitate a group of people to experience a higher calling - through communication, kirtan, prasadam, and more. My pen kind of cycled me back around to how there is a reason I pursued Education in my undergraduate and graduate degrees. I love to organize and own the way I share knowledge, and give my students the opportunity to own that knowledge and run with it, run with it, run with it!! 

The other evening we hosted an event at The Bhakti Center where all the graduates of the spring courses came together for kirtan, to hear Radhanath Swami speak, and honor prasadam. I called upon graduates of Kirtan Connection to not only participate but to lead up the various aspects of the event, from hospitality, kirtan, and the whammy, serving prasadam in sit-down, Vaishnava style. 

Lots of preparation went into the event. The day of, though, I just stepped back and watched these students take over with incredible skill and inspiration. I was there to assist when needed, but really, at one point I almost felt guilty. Um, should I be doing more?? 

The eyes of guests as they left the event were bright and shining with gratitude. There's something about kirtan, sacred words, and prasadam that deeply opens the heart. I saw Radhanath Swami approach many of my students and thank them, even hug the men, and I was so deeply grateful and humbled. 

I just wish that every day of my life I could wake up to that. 

Reminder

I rarely listen to live recorded kirtans. It's just not my thing for a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, there are some live recordings that I listen to at times, and one particular kirtan I listen to is when I myself have lead the kirtan. This particular kirtan that I lead was about four years ago, and I had hosted Wednesday gurukuli bhajans at my home for my birthday.

Now, you may think this conceited of me. I listen to myself sing?

I'm having a difficult time in my life right now - where to go next in life? I'm facing pain and bewilderment and fear. Once again, I have found myself listening to this kirtan from four years ago.

I've been a little mystified why I'm listening to it, a little shy that someone would walk by my room and hear me listening to myself! But this morning I realized that I go back to listen to this kirtan when I am having a particularly difficult time in life - I'm struggling with my life situation, I'm facing issues of self-doubt and hurt and pain, or I'm simply unhappy. I realized that when I am singing the holy name is when I am the most happy and peaceful. I can hear it, I can feel it.

Four years ago I wasn't necessarily happier in life, in fact I was also going through a tough time. But at the time when I sang this kirtan, everything melted away. All that existed was pure joy and connection with others.

When I listen to this recording, there's a part of me that is longing to experience the peace and joy that I can hear so clearly. It's a reminder that I have been and can be happy and connected.

And of course, the holy name is always accessible, always ready to dance upon my tongue if only I let Him. Sometimes I find it hard to muster up any sincerity at all to even chant so I resort to simply hearing, and hope blossoms in my heart once again.

An Inevitable Occasion

Several days ago I chanted one round of japa with a group of ladies and I suddenly became conscious of the moment of my death. One day death will come, just as my 28th birthday came this year. Just as there's this strange jump of time to ten years ago when I was 18, I felt this jump in time to those moments when I'm leaving this world.

Inevitably, that day will come.

All that mattered was the holy name. I felt so loved unconditionally. Even though all of these offenses that can be committed to the holy name are there in my heart, somehow none of them mattered at the time of death. NONE of them. None. Krishna was there for me. It was an amazing experience how the holy name was all that existed and I felt safe.

I had no idea what was coming next, but that was okay. I felt no fear. I felt so loved, that was the surprising thing. No matter what I'd done or said or in my life, Krishna's holy name was there. If at my time of death I can chant the holy name, then my life is complete.

And if I can't chant, the holy name will come for me.

“My dear Lord Krishna, how will it be possible for me to remember You at the time of death, when my throat will be choked up with mucus, bile, and air? O my Lord, may I leave this world at this very moment when I am healthy and conscious; let the royal swan of my mind enter the tangled stems of the lotus of Your feet." - Prayers by King Kulashekhara

The Power of Prasad

I believe in the power of prasad.

My dad has been telling me for the past several years, "Prasadam, prasadam!! You must serve prasadam always; if someone eats prasadam their lives will change forever."

He's not exaggerating.

My father and mother would frequent the Hare Krishna temple while they were finishing up their degrees at University of California, Berkeley. The food was cheap and tasty, and - little did they know - it was spiked. With love, of course. Little did they know that food that has been made and offered with love to the Lord is transformed into prasadam, which literally translates from the Sanskrit as "mercy." Little did they know they were getting hit with mercy, but sure enough they became devotees of Krishna and the rest is history.

Even though you could say that I myself am a product of prasadam, I sometimes have doubted this part of Vaishnava philosophy that prasadam is all-powerful. When I adventured on the traveling youth bus tours in Mexico with Manorama Dasa and Jaya Sri Radhe Dasi, the emphasis on serving prasadam at our events was utmost. In fact, I was doubtful, sometimes even annoyed. What's the point in making all this food? Maybe we'll never even see these people again.

Then I have begun to discover over the past several years that when I myself have felt distant and cold and uninspired about being a devotee of Krishna, I eat prasadam and the world seems to right itself. I am at home, there is nowhere else I'd rather be. God loves me, Krishna loves me, everything is going to be okay.

This past Kirtan Connection I incorporated into the course learning how to serve prasadam in the traditional Vaishnava way. The tradition is that everyone sits down and the servers come to you with every possible option, from water to the main course to a dash of salt. Don't move. Our every movement is to serve you until you are satisfied.

When students hosted their graduation this past Sunday, prasadam was served out in this traditional way. While I surveyed the many people seated in rows and at tables, I began to realize that maybe all the guests would forget the kirtan that was sung earlier, they would forget the little commencement ceremony, they may even forget the eloquent words spoken by our spiritual leader.

But they would never forget how good the food was, and they would never forget the smile and kindness of those who were serving this food.

Towards the end of serving out of prasadam, one guest came up to the table where many of us servers were waiting for our next move. The guest remarked to us, "I was sitting down with my friends and we were saying how we couldn't taste any of the flavors of the food because we could only taste the love overpowering everything!"

We all went "OOOOOOooooooOOO!!" and laughed and laughed.

This is love, this is unforgettable, this is the power of prasad.

Gems

For the Kirtan Connection course that I teach, we have a private blog where students write a post every week and comment on their fellow students' posts. This week our topic was kirtan etiquette and pride. I just finished commenting on every post.

I feel like I've just emerged from a washing machine. I feel cleansed inside and out, as if I have received instructions from my spiritual master on the art of leading and participating in kirtan. I am humbled by the innate wisdom of each and every student.

In this course, we have a woman who received spiritual initiation in 1979 and is now returning to the Krishna conscious movement.

A spunky thirteen-year-old and a powerful thirty-two-year-old gurukuli.

A professional modern dancer who has visited the Bhakti Center only once before, and participated in kirtan possibly four times.

A lady who is dedicated to Krishna Consciousness and is a registered member of a Native American tribe. She comes down from Boston every week and shares her beautiful culture with us.

Two sincere and inspired yoginis - one who teaches and practices at The Bhakti Center and the other one who has traveled to India with Raghunath.

A soft-hearted woman dedicated to truth and serving Krishna.

I am in awe by the beauty of each student, so grateful to be serving each one. I believe that they are probably teaching me way more about kirtan than I will ever teach them. Thank you, Srila Prabhupad, for granting me the association of these beautiful people. 

Certain Uncertainty

[Serenity Series for May]

It just hit me today: Soon I will be living out of a suitcase for two or three months.

Soon I will move out of my room here in Brooklyn. Not exactly sure where I'm moving to.

For at least the next year, my living situation will be temporary, as I'm not married.

Somehow I'm moving into a space in life where I simply just don't know what's going to happen. I just don't know! I'm standing on this high board, my toes hanging over the edge, gazing down at this rich blue, deep, and impenetrable water of my future.

In this suspended space, I had this glimpse today of simple peace: it is what it is. Somehow this is how my life is unfolding. I believe that I have done my best the past several years to follow my heart's calling, guided by intelligence. I have followed my dreams and followed my love, and I have discovered dreams that have transmogrified and a love that has blossomed.

Standing out here on this high board, I could feel sick and nervous and aggrieved. I could. And in my lifetime, I HAVE felt all of those things when I've stood on this similar high board dozens of times. Or, I could just accept the reality of my life. The reality is that I'm going to be okay. I'm not going to die. I got this. I'm not going to go hungry or homeless. I'm going to be okay.

I'm going to be okay.

The fact is that I have dived off of dozens of high boards and survived. I've even enjoyed the ride (sometimes!). The fact is that for the rest of my life I will continue to be perched upon the edge of a high board countless more times. A friend recently told me of a rule for being an adult: "Accept that there will always be uncertainty."

Word.

But one thing is certain: soon I'll jump, jump out into oblivion.

And then I'll land in the water and swim on!

Whats in a Name?

Flashback Friday: September 23rd, 2001 (age 14)

I haven't realized it before, but I'm actually named after it: Bhakti - transcendental service to Krishna... this is perfect happiness. To give and give and give and receive nothing in return. At least materially. Just to give is a magnanimous gift to my own being. To have clothes on my back, to honor prasadam... and to constantly serve Krishna is ultimate.

Anyway, I have recently stopped chanting my japa and performing a mini-morning program. I know this is all temporary, the way I have been acting, but it's not good. I must pray to Chaitanya for mercy and continue my routine of preparing and honoring prasad, chanting two rounds of japa (more, if time allows), play the mridanga with some morning prayers, and then read on spirituality, the scriptures, Krishna's pastimes... anything! I MUST keep going if I don't want to get swallowed up by maya. So, with this contract to myself, this vow to my soul, I will continue these trascendental habits. Haribol! 

Waking Up to My Will

Serenity Series: March

"I've wanted to be a high school English teacher since I was 12."

I've been reciting this line for the past decade or so. This aspiration has driven my endeavors in university, travel, and then ultimately to graduate school. I've recited this line in application essays, interviews, blog posts, and Facebook statuses.

Last fall, I dove into a month-long interview process to work as a teacher assistant at a reputable charter school network. I did my best and surrendered the result to Krishna. Bam - I got my dream position. The principal and I agreed to try it out, see how things went. I was amazed and excited, thrilled to be so directly working and on the path of my lifelong aspiration.

My first days at the school were fascinating, and I was invigorated, inspired. Yes, yes!! This is what I want!

A couple weeks in, I began to feel conflicted. Many times I would come home and cry. Dread. My experienced was summed up in that word. I dreaded checking my work e-mail, I dreaded getting out of bed on days that I worked, I dreaded being at work.

True, I was very rarely engaged in work that related directly to teaching English and to working with students in meaningful ways. I often felt awkward, out of place.

During one particular meeting with the principal of my school, I was suddenly hit with the words: "I'm not meant to be a teacher. Not in this capacity."

That night I got down on my knees and sobbed and prayed to Krishna. Where do I go from here? What does this all mean?

Strangely enough, in the following days I felt lighter. I felt free. I felt as though I had finally broken free of a lifelong expectation that I had had of myself. Free of my history, free of that line that I had been reciting for over a decade in essays and interviews.

I shared with my supervisor my intention to leave the school, and she was understanding. I gave my notice of resignation to the principal, and she was kind and gave her blessings for me to continue on my way. So did all of the other teachers and staff in the building. My last day of work I experienced love and good will from everyone, including students.

I have felt deeply free the past couple weeks. I feel as though the world is open now, wide open. If I decide to work in a circus as a flame thrower, lovely! If I decide to pursue architecture, awesome!

If I decide to be a high school English teacher, wonderful!

Now I know that whatever I do pursue it is because I am using the God given free will of my heart and I would choose to say, "I've wanted to be a high school English teacher since this very moment." 

Glorious Moment

I have sat in front of the deities of Radha and Krishna many, many times with only the walls as witness. I would sit in front of the harmonium and sing the holy name or a bhajan in a random way, just let the notes flow like a river and take me on a journey. Sometimes the notes start to flow and move in a pattern, and a melody forms.

One such melody seems to flow in and out of my life. I often forget it exists and can't remember it, like a distance place I've visited but can't place on a map. I've never sung it in a group kirtan; it always seems to rise to the surface in the quiet times.

The final day of class for Kirtan Connection, I sat at the harmonium while students arrived and took their seats. I had an agenda for the day, and yet there was something unplanned that needed to unfold. So I sang. This melody emerged, the one of the quiet times, the one of spending time with Krishna.

Students boarded the vessel of the holy name and we all journeyed together down this river. All voices intertwined and separated in undulating waves. Each person was wordlessly invited to lead us all in singing one mantra. Each person who sang seemed to express the inner jewel of his or her heart. I felt honored, moved with emotion. 

Being immersed in the holy name, I was surrounded by this sense that, "This is the perfection of life." I could leave this world in this very moment and be at peace. The holy name is my shelter, those who are singing the holy name are my refuge. I am safe. 

I kept playing the harmonium and shared with students to envision those inevitable moments of leaving this world. As Srila Prabhupada said, death should be glorious. So sing as if these are your final moments in this world. 

Our voices joined in a final wave. Tears streamed down my face and others' faces.

Gratitude to Srila Prabhupada suddenly filled my heart. He was the one who sacrificed everything to give the holy name to each of us. Fifty years later, we continue on his legacy. And when that inevitable day comes, may the holy name and Srila Prabupada fill the soul of each and every one of us. May that moment be glorious. 

Jaded

One morning when I was 21, I was in Mumbai, India, listening to Radhanath Swami give a spiritual discourse to several hundred people all packed tightly into a temple. At the end of the discourse, he asked if there were any questions. Being me, I shot my hand up, and when Radhanath Swami called upon me, I stumbled through a rather complicated question.

Radhanath Swami then asked, "Do you all know Bhakti devi?" Several hundred pairs of eyes swiveled to look at me. Heads shook. He proceeded to glorify me in a rather sweet and embarrassing way, and one thing he said kind of shot to my heart. He pronounced that I was the most enthusiastic second generation devotee he had ever known. 

Finally he said, "Could you repeat the question? I was too busy glorifying you." 

This morning I was reflecting on how my enthusiasm has waned. Over the past seven years or so I feel that I have put my heart out, put my heart out, put my heart out. I've allowed myself to get excited, to make plans, to venture forth, venture forth! Time and again, because I've opened up my heart so wide, I have experienced pain that has gone straight into the heart. 

Today at 28, I find myself sore and somewhat jaded. I find myself disconnected from that enthusiasm for spiritual life and for life, especially in relationships. I am blessed and grateful for a significant other in my life, Ghanashyam, who is a deep, compassionate, loving man who keeps me connected to Krishna. At the same time, I am realizing how the hurt I have felt in so many relationships in life has lead to a point of deadness and sadness. An apathy. A continual asking of, "What's the point?"

Maybe that's the next question to ask Radhanath Swami. 

Weathering the Weather

Serenity Series: February

Ice falls from the sky. The road and the sidewalks are smothered in ice, puddles, and blackish snow. All is dark, and headlights from oncoming cars rush towards me in big SWISH SWISHes.

I'm on my way to work at 6:30am. I tightly grip my umbrella. If I don't hurry, I'll be late. Walking through the sidewalks is near impossible, as they are nearly impassable with ice and water. So I walk on the road, but it's frightening to be sharing space with cars in the near-dark.

When I reach the subway station at last, I hurry down the steps, holding to the rails. But there it is - just as I'm descending I hear the giant rumbling of my train speed away.

I wait and wait in the subway station cave, checking my phone every several minutes. Come on, come on...

Finally, a train arrives in a roar, screeching to a stop. When I get out at my stop, the nightmare of walking through the streets replays all over again. I step into a sheet of ice that disguises a pool of icy water beneath.

When I get to work, I feel harrowed. Exhausted.

This is my reality. What can I do about it?

Well, nothing. I can't control the weather. I can't. I never will.

The thought and realization runs through my head: "Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change." The weather is definitely one of those things. I immediately feel reconciled with the strange ways of the universe. There's no need to even talk about the crazy journey to work. It is what it is.

Maybe I can't change the weather but I can get get rain boots. A better coat. That's my responsibility. Otherwise, if I'm caught out in the dark and the rain again, who am I to complain? I might as well start singing and stomping in the puddles. 

Getting Tested

Serenity Series 1: Getting Tested (January) 

It was my second day of work at University Prep High. I had rehearsed over and over in my head my duties and responsibilities in regards to administering 9th and 10th grade midterm exams. I was nervous but willing to embrace the challenge. I double-checked my schedule - okay, 15 more minutes until I needed to be in a certain classroom. 15 minutes? Nice.

I headed to the teacher workroom and made myself a cup of tea. Several other teachers were gathering there, talking and laughing. I joined the conversation.

Suddenly, an exam coordinator was at the door. "Bhakti? Are you administering the midterm exam?"

My blood froze. "Yes,"

"Students are waiting for you."

I had misread the schedule. In silence the two of us walked swiftly down the hall. We came upon the room I was meant to be administering - students were milling about, talking, chatting, and the academic dean was there about to get the students settled. My stomach dropped.

The dean issued some commands, and the students began to settle. I immediately jumped into passing out exams and working other tools. I didn't explain myself or give excuses. The dean, exam coordinator, and I all calmly organized beginning the exam. We were running late. I had been late.

When the exam finally did get rolling and all students were absorbed in silently filling in test sheets, I surveyed the classroom and felt humiliation and fear roll over me.

My second day at work. Second day. I had failed to show up for such an important moment. How could I be trusted again? Would they still want me here? I'm worthless.

Painful thoughts kept whirling around and around in my head in the quiet space of test-taking students.

I thought of the Serenity Prayer. God grant me the courage to change the things I can. Is there anything I can do about this situation? Well, later on I can own up and apologize to those involved. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Other than taking responsibility for what happened, there's not much else I can do. Even if I'm fired, what can I do? I had done my best.

As for the painful self-talk, nothing would quiet those words, so I silently began to chant the holy name, applying the Name like a cool compress upon my feverish heart. My heart cooled.

By the time the students had finished the exam, I had come to peace. I felt as though I had just taken my own exam.

Later on I owned up to my mistake with first the exam coordinator and then the academic dean. Each appreciated the apology and within one minute we had come to resolution and moved on.

Bam. Life moves on.

(To read more about the Serenity Series, click here.) 

Little Pot to Big Pot

On our third day of the Radha Krishna Camp in Brazil, I asked the group of 19 teenage girls, "So what quality do you all want to develop as a group today?"

We broke up into two smaller groups to discuss. In the group I was in, one girl mentioned how everyone seems to be in their own little groups. She formed her hands into a circle, "A panelinha," she said.

"Panelinha?"

"It means 'clique,'" said the girl who was translating.

"Oh really?" I lifted my brows.

"Yes, it means 'little pot,'"

I laughed. Then all the girls laughed to see that I got it. Oh yes, I thought to myself, there were many little pots simmering on the stove of this Camp. 

"Let's be more open," the first girl explained in Portuguese, and other girls nodded in assent. Ultimately, all of the girls agreed to explore being open today.

The analogy became a running joke - any time there were little groups of girls, some would yell out, "panelinha, panelinha!!" and either break it up or say, "Hey, wanna join my panelinha?"

With each day, the fire became hotter and hotter in this camp. What can one expect when you get 19 girls all living in the same house day after day? We were serving each other prasad every day, getting up early for morning programs, we rode horses, hiked, offered a performance at a senior home, we had a dance party... Let's just say that many tears were shed - from pain in the body, pain in the heart, from gratitude, and from joy.

The final morning of the camp, we each offered appreciation for one other person. When the meeting concluded, spontaneously everyone moved throughout the room, embracing each other, tears flowing and flowing. From my years of saying goodbye on Bus Tours, I knew that never again would we all be in the same room again.

I didn't say anything, only looked each girl in the eyes and felt my heart overflow. What an insane adventure.

We had transformed from a bunch of panelinhas to one panelón - little pot to big pot.