The Holy Name Heals All Wounds

My alarm rang in the dark morning. Immediately, a heavy weight lodged in my gut. While I showered and got dressed and walked out the door, the weight only became heavier and heavier. 

I drove to work in the twilight, the headlights from my car still lighting up the road. That's when the dread really kicked in - facing the reality that I would soon be entering my office, preparing my classes for the day... and then teaching. 

This semester I had started my new job of teaching Freshman Composition at my alma mater, Santa Fe College. This was my dream job, the position I had been dreaming about, praying for, and working very hard to be qualified for for years. 

And there I was, morning after morning, dread settling upon me in heavy, oppressive sheets of tar. 

It made no sense. My students were kind and respectful. I loved teaching my content. The environment of my college is uplifting. My colleagues are inspiring. My supervisor believes in me and supports me. In fact, the woman who hired me was MY Freshman Composition teacher fifteen years prior. I loved every minute of attending Santa Fe College, and on a completely objective level, the dread I was experiencing made no sense. 

Then why? Why? 

I began to realize: past teaching experiences. 

I taught first grade, middle school, and high school in New York City in various full-time capacities. Being a teacher (and simultaneously taking graduate classes at times) is all-consuming. But teaching middle school? The experience can eat you alive. 

I taught middle school full-time for almost two years. The first year was challenging but ultimately inspiring. The second year... let's just say that I could feel myself being mashed up while being eaten alive. This is no secret - that year was a tough year for almost every teacher, student, and even the principal. The most difficult part for me was the experience of disrespect I received from the students, no matter how many books I read in order to manage a classroom, how much advice I received from other teachers, the principal, instructional coaches, and more. I tried everything. A method would work for a couple hours, maybe a couple days, and then the chaos would set in again.

Duty-bound to finish the year, I would wake up to my alarm in the dark morning. Sure enough, the dread would settle into the pit of my gut in that first moment of consciousness. While I brushed my teeth, showered, and rode the subway to work, the dread would make its way into every fiber of my being.  

The helplessness and hopelessness began to permeate my life. I wore my glasses and dark clothing often in a subconscious desire to hide and dissolve. 

The only relief was to drown myself in grading and planning, but the disrespect and lack of self-discipline from 12, 13, and 14-year-olds was eating away at my sense of value as an educator and self-worth. Why put all this time and energy into planning a lesson that would fall apart within the first five minutes because students would start chatting and chatting and chatting to each other, or throwing pencils, or making dismissive comments about the text or the activity, or would refuse to follow a direction, or (worst of all) be mean to each other, or whatever? Of course I had heard it a million times to not take what they said and did personally. They're middle schoolers, what can you expect?

But I could not teach. These students were a difficult bunch, as confirmed by every other teacher and supervisor of the school. The negative behavior spread like a virus, infecting even the nicely behaved ones. Besides, the school itself was in disarray.  

By the time the school year ended, we were all so very, very done. 

I felt like a shell of an educator, wondering if I would ever be competent enough or strong enough or good enough to teach again. I considered leaving education, but deep down I knew it was my dharma (occupation) in this lifetime, and so I shouldered on. And of course, I knew that teaching middle school was simply not a fit for me. I needed to teach adults. 

So there I was, three years later, teaching (young) adults in my dream position, and that dread and self-doubt and and exhaustion was coming back to haunt me. 

I was at a total loss.

Then, on YouTube I discovered a recording of the 99 Names of Allah (Asma-Allah). I was entranced. I read a comment on this video that said, "I play this on my way to work and I don't even know exactly what's being sung at each moment but I feel more peaceful after."

Huh. 

Of course, I understand the power of  the holy name and how it can give peace and love to the heart and soul. I've experienced this countless times in my own tradition of singing and chanting the Hare Krishna mantra as well as other powerful prayers. That said, I've also experienced this kind of peace and fulfillment with the Asma-Allah, especially while I dedicated myself to memorizing the 99 Names. 

So I tried it. 

I played the recording on my way to work. 

One twilit morning, over and over again, I played the recording and sang what I could recall. The names of Allah filled my car and I was bathed in peace and courage. 

Then, in soft and gentle tones, I chanted the Hare Krishna mantra.  

I did this two times on my way to work, maybe three, and the dread dissolved forever. 

Did I have "dumpster fire" days where so much went wrong because I was on a steep learning curve? Yes. But I was no longer battling a foe that kept getting resurrected from my past. I dealt with the current reality of being human and making mistakes. They were fair fights.  

Will the dread return, maybe next semester? 

Maybe. 

But now I know what to do. Or rather, I know who to turn to.  

The holy name dissipated the darkness and lit up my heart. So often we struggle with past demons and patterns and impressions, seemingly endless cycles of pain and hurt and sadness and anger and violence and destruction. And while doing the needful to get the healing we need (such as therapy, etc.) is essential, ultimately there's no way out of those patterns by only fighting them on a material level. The only way out is to take shelter of a higher principle, to take shelter of the Lord. And the easiest way is to call out His name. 

My thanks go out to that commenter on YouTube. You showed me that the holy name is like medicine - it works even if we don't know or understand how it is healing our hearts. 

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

Hare Rama Hare Rama

Rama Rama Hare Hare 

I Can't Help Falling In Love With You

Like a river flows
surely to the sea
darling so it goes
some things
are meant to be...

I can't help falling in love with you. 

I'm on the subway, listening to this song, and in the darkness of my closed eyelids, a glowing image emerges.

And while yes, that song does conjure up images of my beloved husband, Ghanashyam, another images always comes to the forefront.

My body goes still.

An image of statues emerges in the dark - one is of a young woman, the other a young man - and they're standing side by side, wearing lovely, draping silks. They glow. The woman is an iridescent, pearly white marble, her eyes luminous. The young man is of ebony marble, his arms forever poised to play a flute, his eyes reaching out through time and space. Their gazes touch mine.

A wave of emotion rolls over me and tears flow from my eyes.

The short song ends, I open my eyes to tap repeat on my phone and the wave of emotion dissipates. Then, the guitar begins, I close my eyes, and in the darkness of my closed eyelids, the glowing image emerges again.

I can't help it.

I just can't.

I can't help falling in love with you, God.

Radha and Krishna - Radhe Shyam.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been gazing up at deities of Radha and Krishna, and in the eyes of an innocent girl the statues on the altar were simply God. There were no mind games and philosophical manipulations to wonder how God could fit on an altar and be four feet tall. God stood on that altar because that way we could see each other, and that reason made the most sense in the world to a little girl.

And to the woman I am now, I guess it still makes sense.

Now the altar is in my mind, and I can't help falling in love with those smiles. Those eyes.

When my stop comes, I open my eyes and the lights of 181st Street Station spill into my brain. I ride the wave of people who disembark the train. I wipe my cheeks of the wetness from the tears.

Unbidden, my mind jumps to the moment when I shall leave this world, and a profound peace falls over me. For maybe when I close my eyes for the last time, the image of Radhe Shyam shall be imprinted upon my closed eyelids.

God is magnificent, God is great, God is powerful. God makes the mountains tremble and the tsunamis crash and the earth spin and the sun blaze.

But God is also this beautiful boy along with a beautiful girl who smile at me in the dark and make me weep at their beauty. Krishna makes me fall in love with him, even in some underground tunnel riding a train.

So take my hand
Take my whole life too
For I can't help 
Falling in love 
With you

https://youtu.be/D8pCv-eivqM

The Folded-Palms Thingy

*pseudonym

The stampede of students flew down the stairs - the end of the school day had arrived. "Hey, Mrs. Caruso," Charles*, an 8th grade student, called out to me with a grin, breezing past, "you have 180 youtube subscribers!"

"Wait, what? I do?" I replied, shocked. "How do you know??"

"We were all just checking it out in Mr. O'Connor's* class,"

"You mean, right now?"

"Yeah. We saw you singing. And dancing. You were playing that piano thingy..."

My mouth was agape. "That's called a harmonium,"

"Yeah, it was cool. A Simple Post? That's the name of the video? Pretty cool,"

"That was like, six years ago! My YouTube channel is mainly a teaching tool for singing...!"

"I know, I know. And what was that thing that all these people were doing - " Charles motioned his hands up into a kind of prayer position, " - you all came in and bowed..."

Bewildered, I said, "Uh, I don't know!"

The student swept on by. I glanced around in shock to other 8th grade students who had overheard us and they just nodded, grinning too. They also bounded away, carried away in the exultation of the end of the school day. Obviously they were in on this and had seen all the hullabaloo on Mrs. Caruso's YouTube channel.

I walked back up to my classroom, dazed.

Naturally, I looked up my YouTube channel. I looked at it through the eyes of my eighth graders. Mind you, I work at a Catholic school and I'm the Religion teacher to boot. So these kids are looking at a teacher who has all of these exotic videos of India, putting on some strange draped garment, wearing red dots on her head, performing some intricate and foreign kind of dance, being proposed to in front of an exotic priest in orange cloth, singing some kind of ancient language, and on and on.

Must be weird.

I then came home and kept watching and watching, no longer seeing through my students' eyes, but seeing through MY eyes, the eyes of a Bhakti lata who has been removed from her culture and active spirituality for a few years now. In all of these videos, I'm seeing a common thread - even the ones where I'm just demonstrating the structure of a Hare Krishna melody:

Devotion.

I'm peering into another world, another person's life.

And it's beautiful.

I keep remembering when my student Charles said that he had watched A Simple Post, which I had posted 6 years ago and was just me singing Hare Krishna in my cluttered living room. He had expressed genuine appreciation for that video. It wasn't some fancy edited video, I wasn't doing anything that dramatic. But his eyes had softened when he said, "Pretty cool,"

Some 8th grade boy thought that was pretty cool? Why? No seriously, why? Not just because of the cool harmonium thingy. Not even the foreign language I was singing in.

There must have been something else that was cool.

The holy name.

Devotion.

A hunger for something beyond this world. A hunger for a love to satisfy the soul.

In this quiet space before I jump into the whirlwind of work tomorrow, I feel this tender spiraling of my heart, this yearning to... to... be a devotee. To express my longing for God with all of my heart.

Oh Krishna. Please draw me home to You.

And if you so desire, may I sing and play the piano-thingy and may I approach you with the folded-palms thingy.

(If you are an email subscriber, you may click on the links below the videos to view)

A Simple Post: https://youtu.be/bj6lwzjFbhQ

Soul Passion

The man's head was bowed and his hands held slender wooden drumsticks. His hands tapped out rhythm, his foot pounded the bass drum, the sound filled the crowded subway platform.

My eyes drew like magnets to the sticks that flew in blurs from one drum and cymbal to the next, to the next, to the next. Hypnotized, I watched the strange combination of sounds create a song of rhythm.

The A train was taking forever. So I just stared and stared at the drum player bowed over his little symphony, his hands flying in micro movements in perfect timing. I wondered what it must feel like to be so present in the creation of sound until nothing else exists. The man was one with his instrument.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, tears shone unshed in my eyes and I turned away. I stared across the train tracks, surprised. Emotion? At a man playing a drum set? How come?

I probed my heart.

Absorption. Connection. Passion.

To witness someone so absorbed in a passion felt intimate and so beautiful. I felt this longing in my own heart to be absorbed with such passion in a moment and in life.

Today at school for St. Patrick's Day, the music teacher showed my students a video of Irish step dancing. I sat at my desk, and my eyes were irresistibly drawn to the screen, mesmerized by the lightning quick taps. The dancers smiled and moved with grace and beauty. Once again, to my surprise, tears came to my eyes.

Even now, as I remember, the unshed tears are quick to sting my eyes.

Why?

Absorption. Connection. Passion.

I want to live my life with passion. Presence.

But now I ask a good, hard question: What happens when the man packs up his drums? What happens when the dancers step off the stage?

What happens if no one wants to hear? Watch?

What happens when the body starts to decay and the hands can no longer hold drumsticks? The feet can no longer tap?

At the end of the day, does all the absorption, connection, and passion even amount to anything?

I sit here at my desk in the after hours of school and gaze out my classroom windows towards Tomkins Square Park. The image of Srila Prabhupad standing beneath a tree within that park 50 years ago comes to my vision and suddenly tears come to my eyes.

He had such absorption. Such connection. Such passion.

For God. For the holy name. For giving love. He changed the lives of thousands, even millions, including my own life. Without Srila Prabhupad's passion to give love, I wouldn't even have my own name. He has given me purpose and passion in life.

This time, the tears fall.

An Old Friend

"The bus is only two stops away, honey," Ghanashyam said, glancing at his phone. "I've got to go."

"Yes, yes, coming!" I poured hot soup into my husband's thermos and twisted on a cap with shaking hands. I slid the thermos into his lunchbox and handed it over.

"Thank you!" he said, then dashed away out the door. I took a deep sigh and began to clean up the kitchen. I turned around to face another counter and my heart dropped. The inner cap of Ghanashyam's thermos. This would mean his lunch would be cold and worse, the soup would spill everywhere. I hadn't woken up at 5:45am to make fresh soup for this!

I grabbed the cap and raced to the door. "Ghanashyam!" I called out into the hallway. Silence. I prayed that he hadn't left on the elevator yet. Frantic, I took several steps into the hallway.

The door behind me closed with a thump that echoed off the walls.

I spun around. I stared at the closed door, frozen.

Oh no.

I was in my pajamas and a robe, barefoot, holding a thermos cap. It was 6 o'clock in the morning in winter, the world still dark and asleep.

If Ghanashyam hasn't caught his bus yet, he could give me his key! I thought. Without many other options, I raced down the hallway, the elevator, and through the cavernous front lobby, my robes flying about me.

I dashed right out into the streets.

Barefoot, in pajamas, in the cold, dark morning.

Man, I must've looked like a lunatic!

I sprinted to the end of the block and glanced at the bus stop across the street. No Ghanashyam. Oh dear. So I padded back to our building. I had closed the front apartment building door carefully so that I could still get back inside. Once inside though, I realized I had looked at the bus stop for buses going in the wrong direction! So I RAN BACK OUTSIDE - barefoot, in pajamas, to search the OTHER, correct bus stop.

No go.

This time, though, I hadn't shut the front apartment building door so carefully and it had shut (and locked) behind me.

Great.

Now I was locked OUTSIDE in the cold, dark morning, barefoot, in my pajamas and robe. With a thermos cap!

So I waited and waited, but it wasn't too long before a lady came out the door on her way to work and I got inside.

So what to do?

The building superintendent. Maybe he had a spare key to our apartment. But it was so early, surely he was sleeping. I had no phone to call him, I didn't know which apartment he lived in. Barely anyone was out and about at this hour, and I did not want to feel like a crazy woman, tapping on my neighbors' shoulders begging for our super's phone number.

So I went up to our hallway and thought, hm, I could ask Eddie for help, our friendly neighbor in the apartment directly above ours. But it was just too early for EVERYBODY.

So what to do??

Wait.

I slid to the floor outside my door, the tile cold against my seat and feet. I put the thermos cap up on the doorknob to keep it off the floor and out of my hands. I took a deep breath and, keeping count on my fingers, I began to chant, "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna..."

It was a strange feeling, to be stripped of absolutely everything except the clothes on my back (and a thermos cap). I had nothing and no one to turn to in the world, everyone was out of reach. And yet what could never be taken away from me was the holy name. The holy name was there for me to keep me company. The holy name didn't care whether I was a billionaire in a mansion or some young woman with only the clothes on her back.

The holy name was simply my friend, unconditionally.

In the dark and quiet morning in our hallway, I chanted for about an hour and a half. I would regularly check the sky to see if the sun had come up yet. At last, I figured it was early but not too extreme, so I walked upstairs and rang Eddie's doorbell. Sure enough it took two times, as he was scrambling to wake up and answer the door. He called and texted the super to no avail, then he suggested going through the fire escape as long as my window was open.

Eddie climbed down to my place, opened my window, climbed through and opened my front door. When he did so, the thermos cap came tumbling into the hallway from its perch on the doorknob.

So there you go.

That was my morning.

When I settled once again on the warm couch in my cozy apartment, I reflected how in the chaos of the morning, I had experienced a glimpse of magic. I had connected with an old and beautiful friend who was right there in my heart and would be there until the ultimate moment when all trappings of this material world would be stripped away - death. He would be there even if I couldn't physically bring His name to my lips.

My dear Krishna, O Holy Name, thank you for being there, thank you for being my friend. Unconditionally.   

Tree of Trust

The leaves were a brilliant green in the park when I made my way to St. Brigid's School for an internship interview. I was early, so I wound my way over to the majestic Prabhupad Tree, whose proud trunk and towering plume of branches and leaves extended far into the sky. 

In my heart I wrestled uneasily with the prospect that this would be an unpaid internship. New York City is such a tough city to live. So I struck a silent bargain with the Lord in my heart. I pleaded with Him to please allow me to work at St. Brigid School and get paid for it. If He arranged for this, then I would come see Radha Murlidhara and the Prabhupad Tree every day.  

Fair and square. Right? 

I was interviewed. The principal and vice principal were impressed with my experience and my character. Then the principal dropped the bomb. "Yes, we'd love to have you. And just for clarification, this would be volunteer,"

My heart dropped but I kept my cool demeanor. "Yes, I understand. I'm still interested," Where were those words coming from?? I had known all along I would probably not get paid. But I had had a thread of hope. 

I walked out of St. Brigid with my head spinning, feeling sick. Tears unexpectedly poured down my face. Through blurred vision I made my way to the Prabhupad Tree. Fear overwhelmed my heart. 

I approached the great tree and sunk onto a park bench and wept. Working at St. Brigid felt so right, this was my dream school and opportunity. Yet without getting paid how would it be possible in this crazy expensive city? 

I looked up at the tree and calm settled over my heart. 

Everything will be taken care of. Just trust. 

I rose from the bench and walked over to the tree and gave him a long hug. His bark pressed against my hands and my forehead, his roots spreading out below me. 

On the walk back to the subway, I realized just how much I wanted this opportunity. I would talk about it with my now-husband Ghanashyam, but I resolved in my heart that no matter what the financial circumstances, I would come see the Lord and His devotee every day. 

Ghanashyam encouraged me, and we found a way to make it work. 

Over the past four months, I woke up glad to go to work at St. Brigid. Every day I would come say hello to Radha Murlidhara and the Prabhupad Tree, taking moments to reflect on grace.  

Now my internship is drawing to a close. Today I approached the tree in the park, his plumage long gone, his bare majestic branches reaching  up into the pearly sky. I gave him a long hug. For  four months I've been giving him a hug, and today I felt this affection well in my heart. 

My friend. 

Thank you. 

Although I do not know my next destination, my friend has taught me that everything will be taken care of. Just trust. 

My friend seems only to speak the words of the great soul who once stood beneath his branches by the name of Srila Prabhupad. That great soul was an unknown, penniless man who deeply believed that all would be taken care of. Srila Prabhupad just trusted, and he changed the world.

My dear Srila Prabhupad, may I trust the way you trust, and may my life's work bring me ever closer to your feet and the embrace of the devotees.

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

That´s a Wrap!

2014, what a year! Only one day left. What's gone down in the past 364 days? 

Flew into Hawaii to spend time with my parents

my parent's deities, Sri Radha Raman

 Honolulu Rathayatra!

Ghanashyam came to Hawaii in February to seek blessings from my parents

I moved to upstate New York with the wonderful Mother Kaulini while I did my Yoga Teacher Training with Raghunath and Sondra

from beaches to snow!

Yoga Teacher Training

I got to live next door to Satsvarupa Maharaj for several months

dressing Satsvarupa Maharaj´s Gaura Nitai deities

visits to New York City and Sri Radha Murlidhara

spring is in the air 

moved to Brooklyn New York

Got accepted into the Master´s in Education program at Brooklyn College

a bridesmaid at the wedding of my dear friend Syama (photo by Sharon)

Kartik in New York (photo by Francesca)

taught an 8-week course in kirtan with 14 sincere students

Christmas spirit in New York

One year of being together

 I write this now in Sao Paulo Brazil, as I am here for Kirtan Fest. I am realizing that this year has been challenging and blessed in a thousand ways. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, in every way.

May the holy name ring in a rockin´ 2015!   

Journey of Service

Last year when I was living in the holy village of Mayapur, I would visit Srila Prabhupad's samadhi and pray, pray to be of service. I passed many evenings of prayer in that great marble hall surrounded by the glory of Srila Prabhupad's life. The whisperings of my heart crystallized: go to New York.

When I moved to New York City last summer, I was on fire with so many services! One service offered to me was to teach Kirtan Connection, which I formulated into an 8-week course on how to lead kirtan. 5 students enrolled.

Teaching Kirtan Connection was profound. After every class I taught last year, I kept sensing that "this is why I came. This is why I came." Whether the class was a trial or a triumph, that sense of unconditional service persisted. Four students graduated by leading a full Hare Krishna kirtan in the templeroom, in front of Sri Radha Murlidhara and Srila Prabhupad.

This year, I taught Kirtan Connection once again. The class size tripled. So did the triumphs, so did the trials. Every single day when I chanted my morning japa meditation, I would be flooded with insecurities. As a teacher am I being too controlling? Unclear? Inconsistent? I kept returning to the thought: I have no qualification to teach kirtan, what am I doing?? There are others way more qualified. 

I wrote about it, talked about it, I appealed to mentors for counsel. Solace came in trickles, soothing the burning in my heart.

When graduation came, students lead their individual kirtans, bhajans, and group kirtans. Each kirtan was a gem. Chills raced up my spine with every person who lead. When kirtans had concluded, completeness settled into my heart. Everything I felt that I had been missing through teaching, all my insecurities, everything just filled or vanished and all was quiet and joyful.

In this age of quarrel and hypocrisy, there is no other way, no other way, no other way for deliverance than chanting the holy name, chanting the holy name, chanting the holy name.  

I pray that I may continue to be of service with humility and love.

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." 

Chant the Holy Name

*name has been changed in this post for privacy

"May I help you in some way?" I asked the customer who had just walked into La Maison du Chocolat.

"Sure," she replied, "I'm looking for a gift for a friend,"

"Okay, sure, what would you be looking for? Your budget?"

"Well, she is very sick,"

I was taken aback for a moment, then I laughed, "I see, and chocolate is the medication,"

"I mean, she is very... very sick,"

I grew sober, "Ah, I see." I continued to guide the customer to a collection of chocolates that was beautiful and was in her budget. I wrapped the gift and asked, "Would you like a blank message card?"

"Oh no, I have a big card here," and she pointed to a giant card in its envelope. "You see, my friend, she's sick... yes, the "C" word,"

I continued to listen with my eyes while I packed up the gift. She handed me a collection of bills of different amounts.

"She's only in her 30s, and last year she was diagnosed with breast cancer and she has been in treatment. Last month, though, they found some cancer in her brain. Stage 4."

"Oh wow,"

"Yes, so everyone at work has all pitched in to pay for a personal chef for the next month for her and her husband, and also to get these chocolates. Everyone signed this card. We just want her to take care of herself,"

"I see. I shall pray for your friend, may I ask her name?"

"Diana*,"

"I will pray for Diana, that she moves through this with grace,"

"Thank you so much Carmen [my legal name]," the woman responded. I handed her the beautiful gift bag of chocolates and we exchanged smiles. Then she left.

I was shaken.

Here was a woman on a crash course with death. There were so many people who loved her, but they had no idea what to do for someone about to die. They just wanted to comfort her, make her path a little smoother, a little more enjoyable.

But who cares about a personal chef and gourmet chocolate when you're about to die? From what I've heard and experienced for myself, when faced with death food tastes like cardboard.

When faced with death, I want solace. I want meaning to this life that seems so meaningless. I want truth. I want to know who I am and where the hell I'm going (hopefully not hell!).

Diana's coworkers meant well. They love her, they want to express that love. Nevertheless, all I can think is that if I was faced with Stage 4 brain cancer, I would just want people to chant the holy name for me, chant the holy name for me, chant the holy name for me. Pray that I take shelter's in Krishna's holy name.

If you are reading this, please chant the holy name for Diana, pray that the Lord protects her heart from all fear and carries her beyond this world of pain and death. May she go with God. 

Room Without A Roof

Images from yesterday's wedding play through my mind in snippets of magic.

The mysticism of the ceremony,
the tears of those present,
Jai's sober expression as he vowed to protect Syama,
the grins of pure joy of everyone (yes, everyone) dancing in kirtan,
Syama's effulgent smile and flaring skirt as she twirled,
the rooftop bedecked with white tents
and white globes
and golden lights,
the undulating skyscape of New York City glittering below us,
toasts,
laughing so hard I can't breathe,
the couple's first dance,
everyone dancing slow,
then fast, to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough,"
the delicious lemon poppyseed and chocolate cakes,
helping clean up,
dancing to "Happy."

Although it's popular, I heard the song "Happy" by Pharrell Williams for the first time last night. The lyrics sent chills down my spine.

Because I'm happy
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Because I'm happy
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth

It was a reminder that the soul's nature is to be happy. There's no hard work to it. It's just about being alive, feeling like a "room without a roof." All day, I felt as though that day was about being happy. Let the couple be happy, let the guests be happy, let God be happy.

Let go.

Let happiness in.

It's so easy.

Just BE.

That's the truth.

When I danced to the song "Happy" at the end of the night, the part of the song that kept coming, "Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof," was so perfect, as I and everyone else was on the rooftop of the Bhakti Center and only a thin tent separated us from a limitless sky.
(to view the video below on YouTube, click or copy and paste this link: http://youtu.be/2MJj2A1Kx20 )

Live on Purpose

I read the above sign on the train when I sat down. The message registered as barely a blip, like all other advertising in New York City. Then I opened my book and began to read; the train picked up speed, heading to the next stop.

Suddenly, two uniformed police officers strode through the train, guided by an older man. I looked up from my book. The man pointed at a backpack that was on the ground right across from me.

"Is this anyone's bag?" The officer's voice rang out in the train.

Everyone fell quiet, shaking their heads. The women who were sitting on the seat nearby the abandoned backpack scooted away.

The officers looked around, confirming that no one owned the bag. I watched the scene unfold, my heart pounding a bit. It's true, the bag had just been sitting there. It was some cutesy backpack, a leopard print I believe. But the two officers surrounded it now, their energy taut like wires. Definitely not cutesy now.

I resisted the urge to scramble away, walk away, run away. But what could I do? I was on this moving train. In those few moments when the officers examined the bag, I had this realization that maybe there was a bomb in there, about to explode at any moment.

There was nothing I could do about it. Although I experienced fear, I also experienced this eerie calm, that somehow if this is my fate, it is what it is.

When the train slowed to a stop, one officer stepped out of the train and the other cautiously unzipped the bag, as if touching a wild tiger. I could feel all the passengers watching, holding their breaths.

The officer unzipped the bag with one final tug.

Sneakers.

Everyone let out a collective breath. The officer carried the bag out of the train, joining her comrade. Then the train boarded more passengers and we moved on.

It was not a laughing matter about this leopard-print backpack - after all, there have been numerous incidents of such episodes that involved an abandoned bag which were deadly.

There is a verse in the scripture Srimad Bhagavatam that describes how in this material world there is danger at every step. I had no idea that when I got onto the train that day that maybe that day was my last. I am sure that anyone who has ever been involved in a lethal terrorist attack, or a plane accident, or even a car accident had no idea that that day was the last day of their lives.

Sometimes it takes danger or an accident to stop living on accident and start living on purpose. Every day, may I and may we live on purpose.

And may the owner of that bag and those sneakers get her stuff back. It was a cute bag. 

A Month in the Life

The month of August, 2014, has been a crazy one indeed. Amazing and crazy. I thought instead of telling you I'd simply show you. 

I got to dress Sri Radha Govinda, the worshipful Lords of Mother Kaulini. 

I moved into my new place in Brooklyn, New York. Ghanashyam and I painted my room... and gave it a caramel-colored accent wall. 

A church spire peeping over the aboveground subway line. 

The view every time I head over on the train to Manhattan

Brooklyn College's historical campus 

Getting my ID! 

 Ghanashyam's grandparents on their wedding day in 1945 - sixty-nine years ago

 I got hired at an upscale chocolate shop on Wall Street (my professional development is to taste these)

 The sight I see when I head home from work in the evenings

 Prayers on the street

Spending some evenings with Ghanashyam

 A dash of green amidst gray

 The public indoor space where I have lunch while at work

Washington Memorial

 A gift from Ghanashyam. Purple means "enchantment"

I walked out of my door one day and lo and behold who was walking in my neighborhood park but the beautiful Jayadwaita Swami

***

If you'd like to read about my month, a play-by-play as I write every day, feel free to check out my sister site: 30dayxray.blogspot.

Graffiti

    (photo by thingsnobodycaresabout.com)

I walk past the gutters
littered with trash
and the walls scrawled
with shapeless letters.
Music with no melody,
only beats and mutters,
blares from speakers.
Lined, unsmiling faces
and crossed arms
greet me on the platform.
The train arrives with
a blast and the rhythmic
ga-gumph,
ga-guuumph,
ga-guuuuuuumph...
The doors open with a hiss.
The floor rumbles beneath me,
we pass building
after building
scarified with
more
and more graffiti
that all looks the
same same same.
Graffiti scratches surround me
on the window and seat,
on the walls.
A man across the aisle
misses his stop, curses loudly.

I arrive at the Bhakti Center for a festival
drained
by the City.
Drained by the way
We
and I
graffiti our lives
with chitter and chatter
and curses.

I'm on the schedule to
sing kirtan in 15 minutes.
I heave a sigh and
head to the templeroom.
I am washed with the scent
of incense and
the holy name.
I thought that I had needed
to sleep
but after a half an hour
of singing
I just want to stay here
right here
in front of God
for the next seven days
and graffiti my heart
with the holy name.