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.

Snapshots and Huge Pictures

Have you ever noticed that I tend to write on my blog about "snapshot" experiences that somehow impact my heart?

Have you ever noticed that I rarely write about the "huge picture" experiences that impact my heart?

Maybe it's because the "snapshot" experiences can be shared simply enough as a full, complete picture.

Invariably, every time I want to write about a "huge picture" experience, I feel like I'm gushing: "Oh my god, it was unbelievable, amazing, I'm speechless, so profound and beautiful and amaaaaaaazing. Life transformative. Wow."

Seriously. That's pretty much how I want to describe Bus Tours, Satvatove seminars, festivals in Alachua, visiting Mayapur, Vrindavan, Mumbai, or South India, an encounter with Radhanath Swami, studying in India, the Mayapur Academy, attending a kirtan festival in Brazil, 24 Hour Kirtans...

All of these experiences are unbelievable, profound, life transformative, amaaaaaazing. They feel so vast though, I wonder where to begin, how I could possibly encompass such a powerful experience in a little blog post. It's as if I'm trying to fit all of those sky-wide emotions into a 300-word post with maybe a couple grainy cell phone pictures.

I'm sure you've had this experience, too - you'll have gone on a vacation and when you return people ask you, "So, how was it?"

What do you say? "It was great." And maybe, if you're like me, you'll say, "It was amaaaaaaazing. Beyond words."

I am having this dilemma in trying to describe the experience of teaching these two Kirtan Connection courses that just concluded. There were 15 people total in 2 levels, and we just had our epic graduation on Sunday. It wasn't a neat experience that I could describe in a couple hundred words.

But I will try. My next blog post I will dedicate to the experience in teaching Kirtan Connection, to honor those who saw me through - Ghanashyam, Dhira Govinda Prabhu, and Badahari Prabhu; those who graduated, and Srila Prabhupad.

Yes, it was a profound experience. Beyond words. At the same time, the service of the writer is to put the un-wordable experiences into words so that others may share in the beauty. That is what Srila Prabhupad did.

I'll do my humble best to share the "huge picture." 

Winter Bus Tour Photo Essay

A big silver bus outfitted with bunkbeds and filled with youth will head out to Mexico tomorrow for the 2013 Winter Bus Tour. Two years ago I had the honor of going on the Tour to perform bharatanatyam dance, sing kirtan with Madhava Prabhu, and connect with the amazing people on and off the bus.

In tribute of the Bus Tour, here's a photo essay of some of the pictures I took two years ago. 

waiting for prasadam

I often escaped to visit cathedrals

The Gita play

kirtan programs almost every evening

Agua Azul

kirtan with Madhava Prabhu

the ruins of Palenque

panoramic shot of a city wall 

Our Bus Tour Gaura Nitai and Haridas Thakur deities. They're the ultimate adventurers.   

Visions

I had a chronic illness when I was 13 that lasted for five years. I went to many doctors but none could figure it out. I faced many possibilities - invasive surgery, death, but nothing was certain.

So for five years I saw through the vision of death. Not every day, but many days. Even when my illness went away, this vision persisted. I often had this sense that my life would be over in mere seconds, everyone and everything around me would be devoured by time. It was a terrible vision; a gift and a burden.

I remember many years ago how I left my house in Alachua carrying my suitcase at night. I was on my way to join the Winter Bus Tour to Mexico, which would last for 3 adventurous weeks.

I walked down the faded blue front steps and the vision fell over me - all too soon I would be returning to these blue front steps with my bags in hand, the Winter Bus Tour but a memory. Gone. Like sand through my fingers. Just gone.

This happened countless times - carrying my suitcase down those blue front steps, off to my next destination, and then returning. From being gone a couple days to being gone an entire year - it didn't matter.

Time passed.

During that time, I would see my friends and parents through the lens of death - soon they would all be gone. And who knows - tomorrow God may take me. God takes thousands of people every day - every moment - without any warning.

When I was about 14, I read a verse in the Bhagavad Gita where Krishna says, "I am Time, the great destroyer of the worlds." Krishna gave divine eyes to Arjuna so that His friend could witness Krishna's universal form. Arjuna witnessed armies and worlds being devoured, the cosmos spinning, everything whirling and whirling and whirling... at last Arjuna cried out, "Stop, please, stop."

He continued, "Please... show me Your form as Krishna, my friend, the one who plays the flute. The one whom I can offer my love to."

So Krishna showed His form as Krishna. Just Krishna.

Timeless Krishna.

That is the vision I want. I just want Krishna. I want Krishna when He plays His flute, someone I can cook for, put to bed and read to Him at night, someone I can bathe and dress and murmur to, "How are you today?"

I hope one day that I can feel Krishna put His arms around me and hold me. That is all I want.

Let Go

A rope extended from my chest and my harness tightened. Underneath my helmet, I was sweating. My hands shook.

"Okay, slowly walk backwards," the guide said to me. "You're at the top of the cliff now, so when you start feeling the rocks slope sharply down, lean back. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but trust me. Lean back, and you can then walk along the cliff, your body parallel with the ground." 

I nodded, eyes wide. I gripped the rope extending from my chest and then slowly let the rope out from beneath my rear with my right hand. I took one last look at my friends still on the cliff - they grinned and waved at me. I felt sick. 

I rappelled my way across the top of the cliff and lost sight of my friends. The rocks sloped sharply down and then - I will never forget that moment - I gritted my teeth and leaned back. My stomach seemed to flip upside down. Suddenly I was walking down the face of a cliff, parallel with the ground. Above, I could hear distant whoops and shouts from my friends. 

I didn't feel victorious. I just wanted solid ground beneath my feet. 

Then, the next most scary moment came when I needed to let go of the cliff, for there was no more cliff. Just mid air. I needed to rappel through 50 feet of silent air. 

I let go. 

I looked down at the tiny people on the ground waiting for me. Gulp. I felt miserable, and I rappelled through the air, arm shaking even more.

Then, I stopped. I just stopped. I took a deep, deep breath and looked around. I was suspended in the middle of two giant, carved golden cliffs. Above the canyon, the early evening sky was a royal blue, clean and vast and eternal. Below, rivers of sand flowed between the cliffs. A light breeze whispered across my skin. In such profound silence, I could feel the pounding of my heart.  

My mouth broke into a small smile. 

With a reluctant sigh, I began to rappel again. When my feet touched the sand, the guide gathered me up and began to unharness me. My body was jelly. A friend ran up to congratulate me. "Insane, huh?" he said. I grinned. 

I craned my neck to look up at the undulating golden cliffs and the rich blue sky. I pictured myself suspended between the cliffs ad I shook my head in awe. 

This happened on the summer Bus Tour almost seven years ago, but today this memory came to me unbidden. I have been reflecting why, why would I think of rappelling down a cliff? 

I realize that right now in my life, I feel like I'm in that harness, sweating under that helmet. I wonder what my next step in life is going to be. Everything seems to be up in the air, everything unsettled. Where will I study, teach, live? Where will I travel, how will I serve, who will I marry? 

Right now, it's like Krishna is my guide and He's saying, "Okay, now when the rocks slope down, lean back, trust me, lean back." 

Let go.

Adventure of the Soul

I write this in a mountain town of Mexico called Uruapan. As the Winter Bus Tour draws to a close, I reflect upon the journey that 28 of us have embarked upon throughout this magnificent country.

I am quieted.

I thought that when I boarded our bus on that now-faraway December night, I would be adventuring out into familiar pyramids, waterfalls, and beaches, then exploring far-flung villages to buy gifts and lots of earrings.And of course, throw in some kirtan for spiritual fun! As in previous years, I assumed a great outward explosion or curiosity and wonder.

Instead, the journey has turned inward. The wonders I thought I would be reeling in have lost their luster to me. It´s strange.

The true jewel has become the holy name. We sing kirtan every night for sometimes hours, and I teach sometimes hundreds of people to dance. I have witnessed miracles blossom before my very eyes - people weep in kirtan and smiles of the soul blossom on faces young and old. I have spoken with several people in my limited Spanish, and the words that come from their mouths are, "I am at peace. My heart is free! This is food for my soul."

I am humbled. This is my fourth Winter Bus Tour, but I realize that I´ve never dived into this country the way I have for the past several weeks. Some days I have almost felt disppointed to realize that Mexico is not about the pyramids or the waterfalls or beaches. And actually, I have not bought a single pair of earrings (oh my!).

Mexico is about the people; people who move my heart in a way no other people on earth have - people who have never heard of Krishna but as soon as they see His picture and chant His name, they instantly fall in love. Even the woman who collects highway tolls asked our bus driver today who Krishna is (since our bus is painted with the words Krishna Culture Festival Tour). We gave her a mantra card.

I am surrounded by people who simply love God and want to know Him and joyously chant His holy name.

Maybe because the holy name is so profound, I have found myself questioning the very foundations of Krishna Consciousness. The externals of my life seem to have been stripped away. I wonder at the purpose of service, and I question every direction in life I thought I was heading into. Some days I have retreated deep inside my heart, grasping and sometimes weeping for answers.

It´s a strange life I live - a day filled with questions while the night filled with answers. 

I have found that each morning that I wake up on my swaying bunk, I wonder what the day and evening shall bring. What adventure shall the holy name usher into hundreds of lives... and into my own?

Bereft

I wrote this several days ago in my journal:

This morning Manorama Prabhu received a text message that the beloved illuminary of service and devotion, Mother Yamuna, had left this world. Right now we're singing kirtan in her honor, and the voices of everyone encircle me in an embrace.

Life is tottering like a drop of water on a lotus petal.

This morning I have experienced that fragility of life. As we sang the Vaishnava song of mourning, I saw people cry that I have never heard or seen cry before. When we sang the Govindam prayers in her honor, many wept. I wept. The voice of Mother Yamuna has been embroidered upon the heart of every person on this bus as well as thousands upon thousands of others.

I do not want to take a moment of this life for granted, and yet all too soon that drop of water shall fall from the lotus petal. Am I ready? Am I ready?

"We must live our material lives as though we shall live forever; we must live our spiritual lives as though we shall die tomorrow." - Unknown

The Bus Tour Dive

In the sultry Dallas night, a crew of people craned their necks up to a figure standing upon a ledge. She was staring out into the abyss.

"You can do it!" someone shouted out.

"We're all looking for an experience, aren't we?" I murmured to my friend Vrinda. "We don't want someone to tell us how it feels to jump off a cliff. We want to experience it for ourselves."

"True, true," she murmured back.

"It's all about the fall, man, that insane feeling in your gut when you're falling into nothingness."

With that, the girl leaned forward and fell head-first to the ground; the bungee cord pulled her back with a violent bounce. Cheers flew into the night like little victory flags.

"What about you, Bhakti? You gonna jump?" Gopal asked me.

"Nah. I have no desire."

"Really?"

"It's too short. It's all about the fall, and this fall is too short. But I'm totally down for skydiving!"

I remember that night so clearly on the Bus Tour, maybe because the Tour itself was reaching its final days, and I was reflecting upon our travels. We had traversed from the majestic beaches of Mexico to the freezing snows of Mount Rainier; a chilly Rathaytra in San Francisco to the sunswept parade down Venice Beach; whitewater rafting in Colorado to bungee-jumping in Texas...

And yet although every day we would wake up to a new destination and a new festival, somehow the ultimate adventure lay amongst us 45 people.

One night we would all lay awake and make up "ghetto" names for each other, and another night we'd tell blonde jokes over homemade pizza.  Some days we would play dadhi banda on the beach from sunup to sundown, and other days we would chant japa together all morning in silence. Some days we would sew marigold garlands until our fingers were dyed orange, and other days we would dance the night away in downtown Vancouver to the beat of the mridanga.

The Bus Tour is all about the people, the people, the people.

I have traveled around the world on my own and also with thousands of people, and I must say that there is nothing quite like the Bus Tour. Nobody can really tell you about the Bus Tour. You just have to experience it for yourself.

You just have to jump.

Trust me, the Bus Tour is not a bungee jump. It's a sky dive.

The Eternal Question

The morning of Los Angeles Rathayatra, Mother Kosha Rupa approached me. "Bhakti, would you like to do an hour in the Question and Answer booth?"

I paused for a moment. LA Rathayatra is one of the largest Rathayatras in North America with outreach to thousands of people. The Question and Answer booth at this particular Rathayatra is an intense experience - crowds of people from Venice Beach flow in and out of the tent in waves and questions are asked that spark fires. In previous years, I've usually just passed by, even a little intimidated by the intensity.

But this Bus Tour is an adventure in surrender. So a smile blossomed on my face and I replied, "Yes, Mother Kosha Rupa, I would love to!"

So after the exhilarating parade down Venice Beach in the hot sun, I wove my way through the crazy crowds to the Q&A tent. I was introduced by the host, Akruranath Prabhu.

Then with a deep breath, I slowly sat down in the hot seat... and looked up to the crowd of people who faced me, their heads cocked with curiosity.

"So," I said. "Does anyone have a question?"

A man towards the back raised his hand. Sternness was written all over his face. He called out, "Why is God so great?"

I took a deep, deep breath. I felt the heat rise to my face. People kept gathering, stopping and crowding around the tent amidst the bustling Venice Beach sidewalks, curious to see what this young girl would say to such a question. I called out to my spiritual master and Prabhupad in the silence.

And then I spoke.

As I unraveled words that I didn't even know I had inside of me, the man's stern face slowly, slowly softened. At last I asked him, "Does that answer your question?"

His expression told me more than his words as he nodded, "Yes, yes it does."

That was just the warm-up question.

"Why is it implied in the Bhagavad Gita that women are less intelligent?"


"Is the Hare Krishna chant the only way to develop love of God?"


"Why have you fallen in love with Krishna?"

After one hour passed and I stepped aside for the next speaker, I felt a little woozy and unsteady on my feet, like I had just stepped off of an amusement park ride. Aaahh!! I had just been given license to dive into mysteries of the soul, existence, love, God, creation, and even the controversies of my faith. And at the times when I wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor, I called out to Srila Prabhupad and Radhanath Swami to please guide me. And the words that came out of my mouth were simply not my own.

I have attended countless Rathayatras over the years. And yet this LA Rathayatra, as I walked away from the tent amidst the bustling festival once again, I felt like I had just tumbled into a new world with fresh eyes.

As a friend of mine shared with me a couple days ago, "Life isn't so much about the answers we get but the questions we live in."

Krishna Consciousness is a question I want to live in forever. 

A Note from Mexico

I write this at a cafe in Mexico overlooking the glimmering Pacific Ocean. I feel strange to be writing this on a computer, connecting with the world.

Not even 24 hours before the Bus Tour pulled out of Alachua, Manu invited me to hop on. In a spirit of pure adventure, I worked out the kinks in my life and finances and bam, I jumped on.

I feel like I've been in Oz for the past week and a half. Every morning I wake up to a new adventure amidst 50 other youth as we travel across North America.

Right now we're off to dance and sing in the streets of Ensenada, and I must go. Many stories and pictures await.

A Glorious Encounter

(image by TrekEarth)

In Mexico, there is a mystical place called Agua Azul where a series of waterfalls cascade down a mountain. Once a year, the Bus Tour visits for one glorious day.

So after many adventures, towards evening I made my way to the main waterfalls to chant japa. Tourists crowded behind the railing, snapping pictures.

I grinned and ducked under the railing. I nimbly walked along a narrow strip of rock until it ended in a little spot just big enough for one person to sit. I had dubbed this The Radhanath Swami Rock, so named because once Radhanath Swami had sat upon a rock in the middle of the Ganges River in meditation for one whole month. When he had committed to a final act of surrender, the Ganges had given him the holy name, the maha mantra.

I settled on the little promontory. The majesty of the waterfalls enfolded my vision, and the roar drowned out the sounds of tourists. I unwound my beads from their bead bag and held them between my hands so that anyone who saw me would know I was meditating, and not just mumbling to myself.

I chanted and fell into a trance. I wondered if I listened closely enough the roar of the waterfalls would reveal the holy name to me. I've tried this a lot around large bodies of water ever since I heard Radhanath Swami's story, but mostly I just get an earful of water.

Suddenly, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see a friend from the Bus Tour behind the railing, holding a plate of prasadam for me. I rose, walked to the railing, gratefully took the plate, and then my friend left. I ate the pasta as fast as possible - I wanted to return to chanting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an elderly couple observing me in silence.

"Excuse me," the woman suddenly asked in Spanish, "But were you chanting 'Ha-dee Kish-na Ha-dee Kish-na...'" she recited the entire maha mantra.

Dumbstruck, I replied in Spanish, "Yes,"

"And you go around the beads 16 times?"

"Yes! How do you know this?"

"There are Hare Krishnas in Veracruz, where we are from," she said. "Wonderful people."

"Tell me," the husband asked. "What do you believe?"

I lowered my plate. "Well... Ah... This is the science of how to love God, and how to love one another. It is the same in all religions, is it not? This," I gestured to my beads, "is how I connect with God, by calling out His name with love. God may have many different names, but ultimately, God is God."

"Beautiful." the woman said.

"God is so miraculous, isn't He? He created all this," the man gestured to the panorama in front of us. The sun was setting behind the turquoise waterfalls, the jungles were lit in emerald, and the sun danced through the mist in golden clouds.

"God is amazing," I said.

"God is amazing," they agreed.

We bowed farewell to each other, enlightened. I threw away my plate and once more tiptoed out onto The Radhanath Swami Rock. Just as I had settled down, an undulating black ribbon began to stream from behind the waterfalls and fill the sky.

Bats! Hundreds and thousands emerged from the waterfalls in the twilight to loop through the sky in dizzy circles, and then flew off into the jungles for their evening hunt.

Had the elderly couple witnessed this glory of creation, too? I twisted around to look for the couple, but they had vanished.

I closed my eyes and began to chant. Suddenly I realized that the waterfalls had revealed to me the holy name - the elderly woman, in her broken way, had recited the entire maha mantra.

Even out here, in this far-flung country of Mexico, the mercy of Srila Prabhupad had found an elderly couple; and in the jungles of Agua Azul, that mercy had found me.

Sometimes I see so little difference between the glory of God and the glory of His devotee.

The Mystery of Mercy

Not so long ago, I had a dream that I was lying on the side of the road, immobile, hidden from view.

I was dying.

My mind was scattered and fear seeped through my veins. A call for help was lodged in my chest, unable to move because of my numbered breaths.

Then, from down the road I could hear the faint ting of kartals and a distant thrum of mrdanga. The party approached; a dozen people danced by, only yards away. But they didn't see me and I couldn't get their attention. The holy name rung through the air.

I wept and wept; I felt peace filter into my heart. Then the kirtan party moved on down the road, and I breathed my last breath.

I awoke.

The dream haunted me for weeks, for I realized that at the time of my death my mind was not on Krishna. I had been abandoned by everyone and everything, and the dying process had submerged me in fear.

And yet, although I had forgotten Krishna, He had remembered me. The holy name had come for me.  

***

On the first day of the Winter Bus Tour, we pulled into the city of Houston. Our stay was short, so that morning some temple devotees invited several of us on the Tour to sing at a hospice.

When we arrived to the hospice in the cold afternoon, we filled the quiet halls with our laughter. Our arms were loaded down with a mridanga, portable harmonium, and karatalas, and our faces shone with tilak.

Moshumi, our host, addressed us in welcome. “Thank you for coming. This first floor is for those who are to leave this world soon. We have two women especially that we would like you to sing for.” We all quieted and followed Moshumi down the hall. “We were thinking that first you can sing in the hall, and when the time is right we’ll usher you into each room.

“Please keep the music soft,” she continued. “We just had a death on the second floor,”

The gravity of this experience settled on our shoulders. Akinchana began a soft, lilting kirtan and passed the lead on to each of us. Several minutes later, Moshumi ushered us all into the first room.

Singing, we fanned out in a ring around a woman in a hospital bed, her body laced in tubes. When we entered, she sat up in bed, and her eyes lit up. She smiled, as if the sun had entered her room.

Then Akinchana gestured for me to sing; I closed my eyes and sang, and here in this room with a woman whose days were numbered, my own moment of death felt so close, as if I could reach out and touch it.

Suddenly, I remembered my dream, and how I had been so helpless and undeserving at the time of my death. But by the mystery of mercy, Krishna had come for me. The devotees of Krishna had come for me.

It was as if I had become one of those devotees on the road passing by a dying woman. I could sing and I could dance, whereas in my dream I had been paralyzed. This time, I could be an instrument of peace for the holy name.

I sang and tears fell from my eyes.

When I opened my eyes, the woman had raised her arms in the air, her face beaming. Everyone in the room was dancing. I wept.

I write this now over a month later, and I believe that the woman at the hospice has left this world. I don’t even know her name.

But before she left, she knew the holy name. Somehow, on that cold afternoon in Houston, we had all been instruments of the holy name, and that is a mystery of mercy I shall never unravel.

Windows to the Bus Tour

For the first time in a year, I tapped into my photography passion full-tilt, for three weeks. Travel is always incredible inspiration for photography, to capture moments of explosive and also quiet splendor. As an amateur artist, I cordially invite you to view my albums from this year's Winter Bus Tour. Copy and paste the following links into your browser. Enjoy.

Bus Tour Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2129934&id=201408421&l=18ae0aec47

Bus Tour Portraits: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2129020&id=201408421&l=72609e5ab2

Also, below is the video that Manu Prabhu edited on this year's Bus Tour - a small snapshot of what we do, and the hearts we touched. [e-mail subscribers will need to click through to seedofdevotion.blogspot.com, or follow this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUUt2xZAfeo]

The Secret to Silence

I arrived into Mexico City silent, and I left silent. I had made a vow that for one day, I would devote my voice to Sri Krishna.

It was my third 24 Hour Kirtan; in each of these three events, I have committed myself to mauna vrata, or a vow of silence. And each time, my experience of the holy name goes one notch deeper. All day long, only the holy name cycles through my mind - over and over and over. In all shapes and forms and sizes, the holy name swirls around me - around and around and around.

By the end of the day, the power of the holy name has soaked into my skin, into my mind, into my heart.

Mauna vrata for a 24 hour kirtan is so beautiful and so powerful that I wish others would try it. Of course, the question is: How to only chant the holy names when I'm surrounded by such amazing devotees, by my friends? What if I have a service? What if I just need to ask for directions? 

I have several techniques which involve a notepad and plenty of hand gestures, but here's my secret to survive a vow of silence for 24 hours when you're surrounded by the whirl of a festival: stay in kirtan.

That's it.

Maybe you're immersed in a beautifully sung kirtan. Wonderful, stay there. Maybe the kirtan is off-key, or off-beat. Wonderful, stay there. Maybe you get up to dance, maybe you cry.

Stay there. Maybe the holy name will decide to dance upon your tongue.

The Last Knot

So.

The bus has wound its last knot upon the ribbon of highway of the Mexico Winter Bus Tour.

If I ponder too deeply how this experience whirled by in a blur, an ache will enter my heart. Just like the folding of a very long sari - both ends are so far apart, but with one quick fold, the ends touch.

Right now I sit on a whirring bus at 3am, wearing the same blue sweatpants I began this Tour in. It seems as though only moments ago I boarded a whirring bus in the night. It's like the first and last threads of this sari of a similar pattern, and now that they're touching, I feel this jumble in my senses, a disorientation of my heart.

This Bus Tour has breathed golden air into the lungs of my spiritual life. I've taught literally hundreds of people how to dance the Swami Step in kirtan; upon the encouragement of Gopal I've actually distributed some of the first books of my life; and every morning I would wake up to the adventure of jungles, oceans, pyramids and lost civilizations, which all prompted me to deeply ponder Krishna in my life.

Most of all, the mood of kirtan and service of the Vaishnavas on the bus has reached past my selfish shell and touched my heart.

I'm home, it's good to be home, but I'm still living in the phantom motions of the bus. I don't want to step off.

Not yet.

A Profound Answer

Three days ago on the beach in Tampico, Krishna Kirtan and I took it upon ourselves to dress the Bus Tour Gaura Nitai deities. So I rolled out a sarong on the sand and we unfolded all of Their jewellry and clothes.

The warm yellow afternoon surrounded us, and the sea breeze brushed the air. We fell into a companionable pujari rhythm. Kirtan is fifteen, quiet and deep, and our rapport echoes much of older sister - younger brother.

Halfway through our service, I asked one of my hypothetical questions.

"Kirtan, if you were to die tomorrow, and you could go to one place anywhere in the world for your last day, where would you go?"

In his detached way, Kirtan shrugged. "I don't know," He continued to search through bracelets.

"Oh come on, Kirtan, just answer,"

"I don't know, why does this matter?"

"Come on," I cajoled, "The value of my question is that you consider what is important to you, and what you value in life. Just consider my question,"

Kirtan was quiet, and we resumed our puja to Gaura Nitai. And then, in his nonchalant, profound way, he said, "I would go somewhere where I would cry."

I froze and turned to look at him. "Cry?"

"Well, cry with love. For God."

I was quiet for long moments. His answer rung in my mind. Then I said softly, "Thank you, Kirtan, that is a beautiful answer."

He tilted his head and smiled a little, and continued with his service.

No Bounds

Our first official day in Mexico, we had just finished an amazing kirtan program at the Museum of History in Monterrey. We were all super tired. Outside in the streets, car honks filled the night in exhilaration - the city´s soccer team had just won a match.

Some Mexican gurukulis asked me to show them the tune on the harmonium that I had sung during the program, so I gladly obliged. Another two or three people from the Bus Tour joined our little group. Then Akinchana started to sing; Goshi and I got up to dance, Gopal grabbed some tambourines, and our party grew.

Then Goshi grabbed the portable harmonium. Akinchana swung it over his shoulders, and we all headed out into the streets!

When our party hit the streets, it was like an explosion. The Mexicans waved and cheered and honked their horns, and spectators gathered like iron fillings to a magnet.

For a full half an hour, we sang and danced on that harinam. Enthusiasm knows no bounds when you´re on the Bus Tour with kirtaniyas.

A Walk to Remember

Baja, Mexico; view from the cliff of our traditional Bus Tour campsite

Early Memories of My Guru: A Walk to Remember

I was seventeen on the second morning of my first ever Bus Tour in 2004, and I was one of the first to roll out of my bunk. When I emerged from the bus in my pajamas in the cool, gray morning, I stood on a cliff in Mexico which overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The ocean soared into the horizon, and the empty, epic beach far below disappeared into misty cliffs in the distance.

The night before, I had heard on the wind that some of the boys were going on a japa walk with Radhanath Swami along the beach. Secretly, I had planned to jump in.

But in deep dismay, a hundred yards away I saw a flash of orange and several boys hasten to the stairs in the cliff that led down to the beach. I felt this panic to run after them, shouting, "Wait! Wait for me!"

I even grabbed my japa mala and began to sprint after them, but they disappeared down the stairs and I lost my courage. “I’m a girl,” I grumbled. “A girl! If only I was a boy. If only.”

I trudged back to our cluster of tents and paced the quiet campsite. I saw the tiny figures of Radhanath Swami and the boys emerge from the cliffs below and become black dots in the distance.

I paced and paced the site, anxious. Finally, I decided that I just wanted to go on a japa walk, that’s all. Maybe not with the others, but at least by myself. That’s all. You know, just chant…

I set off for the cliff stairs.

While I walked barefoot along where the ocean meets the sand, I chanted and fell into a trance of meditation on the waves, and Lord Krishna’s words in the Bhagavad Gita: “Time I am, the great destroyer of the worlds.”

A mile into my japa walk, I looked up. There, in the distance, shrouded by the ocean mist, approached four or five figures.

I grinned.

I spun on my heel and began to meander back where I had just walked. Slowly, slooowly…

“Haribol, Bhakti!” I heard a voice.

I looked over. “Radhanath Swami! Well, Haribol! Good morning.” Fancy seeing you here. Several boys from the bus tour who hovered around him looked at me a bit reproachfully, as if they knew exactly what I was up to. Suddenly I realized I was in my pajama skirt, my long hair loose down my back.

“Would you like to join us?” Radhanath Swami asked.

“Yes, of course!” I replied. I grinned and joined their group. The boys looked annoyed.

“Maharaj?” I said.

“Yes?”

“I… I have a question.”

Right there, where the ocean met the sand, Radhanath Swami stopped in his tracks and turned to look me straight in the eye. I halted, too, surprised. The group of boys fell back and chanted at a distance.

I remember that my question dealt with the ocean, and I remember how his answer dealt with the mercy of Srila Prabhupad. But what I remember most was how the waves kept washing over our feet as we spoke, the gulls looping in the sky above, and the intense presence of Radhanath Swami, and how he seemed as if he had all the time in the world to answer my question.

We were alone, yet we were not alone. And in those moments, it didn't matter whether I was a boy or I was a girl. I was simply a soul seeking shelter.

When at last Radhanath Swami asked, “Does that answer your question?” I nodded. He smiled softly. Then he quickly turned on his heel, gestured to the boys, and we all briskly began to walk along the ocean in silence, chanting.

When we reached the base of the cliff where the stairs lead up to our campsite, Radhanath Swami sat in the sand, and we all followed suit. Our little group chanted together there on the beach as the sun rose on the ocean.

At that time (and now, as well) japa was my weak point, but every once and awhile I would glance over to Radhanath Swami and observe how he chanted japa with such power. I would then return to my own chanting with vigor.

The sun filled the air with gold and glinted off the ocean when I heard Radhanath Swami and the boys rise to their feet. I didn’t want to go, so I continued to sit, eyes closed. Maybe if they saw my concentration, they would just head back without me. But then I heard, “Bhakti devi, let’s go,” I looked up to the smile of Maharaj.

I stood up. Maharaj led all of us through the sand, and I fell in right behind him. I hopped from his footprint to footprint, catching his mercy, hoping to follow in his footsteps.

The following year, in 2005, the next time I sought out the association of Radhanath Swami, I took shelter of him as my spiritual master. I pray to follow in his footsteps.

Seeking the Essence

We park the bus at an outpost, locals staring at us curiously. We throw on our gamshas, chattering and laughing, and traipse into the jungle. We wind along the path... we're getting closer... I can hear the muted roar through the rich, dripping jungle. And at last we emerge onto a precipice... to overlook a thunderous, misty waterfall, the water eddying in deep blue/gray pools.

When I retire from my adventures of exploring the hot spring waterfalls, I join a crew of those in a special spot to allow the hot water to pound on their heads like a massage. As we lounge there, Mahajan Prabhu approaches us with a rock.

"Look, gold," he says. I lean forward, dubious but suddenly intensely curious. "See? When you turn it in the light..." he holds out one of his black rocks and I take it in my hands. My scientific brain kicks in as I turn it this way and that.

"No, I think the river has just pounded this rock in a certain way, in certain places to make it shine..." I say, but I'm entranced.

I return Mahajan his rock. "I think it's just some kind of fool's gold. Where did you find it?" I ask.

"Over here, in the rock bed," he gestures me over. I hop off my rock ledge (my spot immediately taken by Amal) and follow him across the stream.

Mahajan shows me how to look for the rocks with gold. "You pick the black ones up, turn them this way and that, let them catch the light..."

I settle into the rocky bank and begin my search. To my surprise, I find that nearly every rock shimmers with flecks and stripes of gold, if only I turn it in such a way to reflect the light.

Spellbound, I sit there for a long time, sifting through stones, searching for gold. Some fellow Bus Tourians pass by and inquire into my curious quest, and then continue on their way.

But a beautiful realization begins to blossom inside of me: saragrahi. Seek the essence. Right now, I am seeking the essence. And with the Vaishnavas, it's a bit like this. Everyone looks like a simple stone. But with a careful eye, I can search out the gold in everyone - not by direct glare, but rather a sideways tilt. It's the little things someone does, when no one's looking, that burnishes them gold, that gives a Vaishnava their subtle glory.

And my work, as a saragrahi Vaishnava, is to find that gold, and bring it into the light.

The True Rush

We load our stuff - luggage, Deities, bhoga, pots, propane stove - onto the two boats. When we motor away onto the lake, wonder and awe seeps into my body. I behold a magnificent sunset on the volcanoes, misty far-off valleys, jungle shores, the glassy lake we glide over, and the wind fills my lungs. I am in a tucked-away corner of the world.

When we approach and anchor at the docks, a glowing woman in a sari and tilak greets us. The mood is complete when the other boat pulls in and they're rocking out to a beautiful bhajan, filling the air with Krishna's name.

After we set our backpacks down in our rooms, we head down in the quiet evening to the glowing templeroom.

We array in one giant circle on the warm wooden floors beneath a vaulted roof of palms.

Manu then introduces us to our Japa Retreat facilitators: Divyambara, Purusha Shukta, and Giri Govardhan. I feel a rush in my veins very unlike the rush from exclaiming over my room or even speeding over the lake. No, this is a rush to draw closer to the holy name.

We end our orientation with a kirtan. Still riding the high of such an exhilarating day, I expecting a rousing, get-up-and-dance kirtan.

I am softly caught by surprise. Someone dims the lights down low and lights candles for our beautiful Bus Tour Gaura Nitai deities. Divyambara begins to sing. Her voice and soft emotion sends chills down my spine.

Aaaahhh... the Japa Retreat has begun.