Me, At the Core

I am teaching my students how to write a five-paragraph essay. Because I work at a private Catholic school, I get to bring up God all the time. The special feature of Catholic schools is that people from all walks of life attend this institution. For the final exam for my 7th Grade, I created an exam that they would read an article about theism, atheism, and agnosticism, identify with one, and then write a five-paragraph essay to explain their reasoning. Their responses have been enlightening.

I decided to write the essay myself.

***

I glanced at the grinning faces of all the ladies surrounding me, and when the music in praise of God rose to a crescendo, we all spontaneously began to twirl, our arms raised. Our skirts flared like blossoming flowers, and my feet turned upon the warm wood floor in swift movements. My face lifted and my whole face smiled and I felt my whole body alight with a joy beyond this world. In my religious tradition, we sing and we dance, for we believe it is the natural proclivity of the soul to sing and dance in the joy of God’s love. Even when my mind doubts stories and is disgusted by the horrible things done in the name of religion, these deep, powerful experiences of joy tell me that God exists. I am a theist because I believe in sacred objects and rituals, I follow a God-centered moral code, and I experience religious feelings.

I believe in God because of my experience of the supernatural through sacred objects and rituals. In my tradition, we worship a special statue of God, called a murti, because in this way we are meant to develop a sweet and intimate relationship with Him. In the article “Who are atheists and agnostics? Are they religious?” on Thoughtco.com, the author states, “Sacred means that something is very special and worthy of respect. In religion, people might think sacred things are connected to God or gods.” When we worship this murti of God, we hold it very special and offer it our deepest respect. This quote says that people might “think” that something is connected to God, and I would take this one step further to say that I have “experienced” that this murti is connected to God. I have experienced that when I look into the eyes of this statue, I feel that I am seen, and I feel loved and accepted for who I am, unconditionally. I have never experienced this by looking at any ordinary statue in this world. It is actually said in my tradition that the gaze, or the drishti, of the murti actually has this effect on the heart - a sense of peace and a sense that “everything is going to be okay.” I believe that this object is sacred and connected to the supernatural which gives me conviction that God exists. 

Another reason that I am a theist is that I follow a God-centered moral code. When I took vows of spiritual initiation, I promised to follow four moral codes plus a commitment to meditation that would guide my life. The article states: “Think of a moral code like this: it is a set of rules about right or wrong behavior.” One code that I vowed to follow is to take no intoxicants - this means to not drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, or take any sort of drug. I believe that this moral code to not take intoxicants helps me to live a life that is awake and present. This moral code is communicating that I do not need some material substance to be happy and that ultimately my only, true happiness can be found by loving and serving God. To me, this is "right" behavior. This moral code, as well as the others that I follow, allow me to live a present, conscious life and to love with my full heart.

A third reason that I consider myself a theist is that I experience religious feelings. Religious feelings are more of an undeniable experience of something beyond this world, and no one can take that away from me The article states that “These feelings might include awe, adoration, or guilt. If you believe in religion, the feelings are usually connected to the presence of the supernatural.” I have experienced awe by participating in religious rituals and singing God’s praise. I have experienced adoration, affection, joy, peace, and humility through my religion. I have never experienced the depth of these kinds of feelings from anything in the ordinary material world, such as from watching a great movie or even spending time with my family. The depth and power of these religious feelings have only been felt when I am connecting to God and the supernatural through scripture, and spiritual song and dance. Ultimately, even when my mind rejects God, religious feelings and experiences are what make me come back to God and believe and trust in Him.

In conclusion, I am a theist at my very core. I could share many reasons, although the ones I highlighted here are that I believe in sacred objects that connect me to the supernatural, and that I follow a moral code that is connected to God. What binds all of my reasons together to be a theist is that I experience religious feelings, which always pull me back, even if I wander away from God for a long, long time. I would say that right now, I have distanced myself from the externals of my religion. But I have conviction that I will sing and dance in praise of God again and my soul will lift beyond this world to experience a joy that can only be felt within God’s embrace.

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.

God's Temple

Several years ago, in the evening a whole busload of devotees all went swimming in the ocean, and I was in bliss! Ah, the ocean! It had been almost a year since I'd frolicked in the waves. I then went on a very long, dancing and frolicking walk along the shore.

For the first time in a long time, to the crashing waves I sang "Mama Mana Mandire." I used to sing this song so often - it would invoke a very special mood for me.

When I used to live in Hawaii, there was no temple on my island. As a teenager and the years went by, I began to despair that I would ever be around a temple and devotee association again. One day I listened to Rasa's "Mama Mana Mandire" track, and I was stunned. What did this song mean? I did a Google search: the temple of my heart.

I used to bikeride in the evenings out to this crest on the mountain that overlooked the city of Kailua-Kona. I would take in the undulating valleys, glistening blue bays, and the ocean would wrap around the island. I would watch the magnificent, glorious sunset every evening, and I began to sing this song. "This is my temple."

A tradition grew. Whenever I felt awed and humbled by the beauty of nature, I would sing this song. I began to be absolutely immersed in the everyday experience of being in the majesty of God's temple.

When I moved to live within the devotional community of Alachua, I lost touch with the song, that longing.

But when I sang and danced amidst the ocean waves at sunset on the Atlantic Ocean, I traveled back in time. I meditated on that deep feeling that God is everywhere. I can feel Him, I can experience Him. I don't need a building to worship Him. He is here in my heart and He is also all around me.

That longing to be around the devotees when I was in Hawaii was so very, very special. Every single day, my desire became only more and more intense, my longing more and more powerful. I pray that this longing may always reside within my heart. Always.

Embracing My Nature

I have always considered my nature to be that of a brahmana - one who feels the most alive and content to study and teach.

Today, though, I have been embracing the fact that my nature is also that of a ksatriya - an administrator, leader, even a bit of a warrior.

I saw a picture tonight of me dancing in kirtan and tears poured down my face. I looked so intense, so passionate, like I was about to fight someone.

Accepting the fact that I have a ksatriya nature is so much harder than I thought it would be. As a woman, am I still lovable even when I bust out a sword?

Looking at that picture, I felt repulsed and liberated at the same time to accept the reality of my nature to be intense, outspoken, different, even a bit of a fighter. This is who I have been all along, all of my life. I feel like today I'm finally accepting that maybe it's okay to be this way, that there's a place in society for me. My journey is learning how to dovetail my nature in service to God.

In one sense, it's not that big of a deal. I'm a brahmana-ksatriya by occupation. Teacher-warrior, no sweat.

Because ultimately, strip away all of those designations and I'm just a soul crying for Krishna.

"I am not a brahmana, I am not a ksatriya, I am not a vaisya or a sudra. Nor am I a brahmachari, a householder, a vanaprastha or a sannyasi. I identify myself only as the servant of the servant of the servant of the lotus feet of Lord Sri Krsna, the maintainer of the gopis. He is like an ocean of nectar, and He is the cause of universal transcendental bliss. He is always existing with brilliance."
- Chaitanya Charitamrita, Madhya Lila, 13.80

Birthday Party for God

(photo by Damodar Rati)

The clock is ticking down to midnight. I approach the glowing temple - I see hundreds of people inside all singing to the thrum of drums, and many more crowd outside on the verandah, peering in.

The time is coming! The curtains will open soon! I dash to the doors and slip inside.

I stand at the back in a pocket of space, exchanging grins with some friends. Suddenly, someone flips off the lights, which plunges the templeroom into darkness. Now all we can see is the glow that seeps around the curtains of the altar, which dimly illuminates the sea of people with upturned faces.

I can't stay at the back. No way.

I catch sight of a friend, and with a huge grin I motion my head towards the altar. "Let's go!" I say. Her eyes widen and she smiles back. I grab her hand and we weave our way through the densely packed crowds, all the way... all the way to the very heart of the templeroom.

The anticipation of hundreds of people to see the Lord washes around me like deep ocean currents.

Suddenly, three men emerge from behind the curtains and place conch shells to their lips. The sound reverberates like trumpets through the night and hundreds of voices rise in response.

Midnight has arrived. 

And when at last, at last.... at last the curtains swish open, hands rise to the sky in surrender, the entire templeroom is filled with cries of exhilaration and joy, every atom of my being seems to be ringing with awe. I raise my own arms. I feel as though a tidal wave of beauty is crashing over and around me.

I fall to the ground in obeisance. Cool marble tingles beneath my hands.

When I rise, I take in the breathtaking form of Radha and Krishna, bedecked with flowers and silks. So begins the midnight arati, the most spectacular kirtan of the year, for midnight on the 8th day of the waxing moon was the moment that Lord Krishna was born.

Just when I think I'm getting a little too overwhelmed with the sound and the heat and the crowds, I look over to see a group of women dancing with zero inhibition. Zero. So I head on over and jump in to the fantastic fray! The dancing spreads and spreads until the entire templeroom of people is dancing and singing at the top of our lungs. I experience all barriers, all judgments, all sins, all pain dissolve. We simply lose ourselves to the bliss and celebration of Krishna and His holy name.

We're throwing a birthday party for God - how can it get any better than this?

(photos by Jivana Wilhoit)

The Bliss of Devotion: Bharatanatyam

Bharatanatyam (bha-ra-ta-nat-yam) is an ancient Indian classical dance form. I have been trying to write a blog post about my love of this dance for years. Literally years - I have written several posts from years ago that are still in draft form.

And yet in writing this series on bliss, I knew that I needed to write about bharatanatyam. Maybe writing about my love of this art form is such a challenge because it's so close to my heart.

So I shall begin at where all great love stories begin - the moment the soul sets on fire. In my very first dance class at the age of 19, I knew I would be dancing this ancient art form for the rest of my life. Even when I faced foot surgery and was forced to stop my studies for two years, my fire never died.

The other part of my love story was when I donned my jewelry and dance costume for the first time. I transformed into a queen. It's not every day that a 21st century girl gets to be a queen.

When I wear the temple jewelry of a dancer and invoke the presence of the gods, I know that performing bharatanatyam is truly like no other experience on earth.

On the flipside, consider that hours, months, and years of a dancer's life are poured into those 10 (sometimes 20) minutes of a performance. I personally feel that there is no way for me to reach any level of excellence without experiencing utter devotion to God in my practice. I am always seeking the perfection in my lines, my movements, my expression, and yet I never, ever reach it. So humbling and so beautiful.

For me, there is simply no other reason to dance than to serve God, to offer my body, mind, and soul to Krishna.

I offer my love and respect to Anapayini dasi (front and center above, below), who is my dance guru, for without her the fire would not be burning within my heart. 

(watch this dance on youtube:  http://youtu.be/wpPDRqe5AV0)

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?

Neverending Love Song

Have you ever sung a love song for 24 hours straight?

Impossible, you may say. Love songs get old after 24 minutes!

I beg to differ.

This weekend at the 24 Hour Kirtan festival in New Vrindavan, I took a vow of silence (mauna vrata) and committed to chanting only God's name. 8 hours or so into the festival I stopped singing a love song and started living in one. Every heartbeat, every breath, every movement - I lived in the world of the holy name.

Hour after hour, the holy name soaked into even the most forgotten crevices of my heart. I grew up in New Vrindavan with the deities of Radha Vrindavan Chandra, and yet during one kirtan especially (Acyuta Gopi's), I glanced over to Their beautiful forms and fell in love all over again.

At around 2:30 in the morning, I began to realize that this love song never got old - I only became more and more addicted. My room was upstairs above the templeroom, but I couldn't sleep. When I tried to sit down and write in my journal, the kirtan from downstairs thrummed through the very floors; I slammed my journal shut mid-sentence and ran downstairs to dance!

Even when exhaustion settled over me at around 5:30am and I somehow stumbled back to my room - still, the kirtan resonated through my body. Half-asleep, I listened to each melody as each person sang, and deep down I wanted to jump to my feet and dance.

And when the last kirtaniya sang the last kirtan, I felt a longing that this love song would never end... that it would just go on and on and on... and on...

 Bhakti Charu Maharaj

 Gatorade - the mridanga player's best friend

 Beautiful and soulful Jahnavi (violin) and Jaya Sita (cello)

 Gaura Vani - organizer of the festival 

  

His Grace Aindra Prabhu - the one who started it all

Crossroads

Crossroads

My feet are adorned

with the anklebells

of a thousand roads.

Where to walk

where to run

where to dance?

I trust not

the illegible directions

I have scrawled upon my hand

with the ink of my mind.

The dust of uncertainty

rises from these roads

to sting my eyes.

I must close my eyes

I must raise my arms

I must spin and spin -

the music

of my anklebells

shall swirl around me

in golden ribbons.

The music of God

is my map.

If I only

walk

run

dance

dance

dance!

the world shall open

in a divine symphony.

Never, Ever Stop

I hold the iron in my hand and the soft, damp smell of India surrounds me like a cloud. For two hours, I have meticulously folded and ironed electric blue silk, shimmering red fans, and tangerine cotton. The hands on my computer clock don't seem to move, and flute and sitar music from Pandora radio spindle from my speakers.

As I have sat in my chair for two hours now ironing my dance costumes, I've been pondering what it takes to become really, really good at something. I mean, life and soul.  When Hariprasad Chaurasia - the virtuoso flute player - came on the radio, I felt awed by perfection. His whole life and soul is to play the flute. That's it. He has practiced, studied, practiced, performed, practiced, taught, practiced, lost his ability to blow his breath into a flute, practiced, got Carpal's tunnel, practiced, and everything again a thousand times over... just flute, flute, flute. And after he has played the flute for more waking hours than sleeping hours in his life, he plays the flute some more.

And that is why I feel awed by Chaurasia's perfection. Because he never, ever stops playing.


I wondered how it would feel to dance and dance my whole life as a service to Krishna. To attend so many practices that when I walk I begin to dance; to iron costumes countless midnights; to tie on my dance jewelry for countless performances...

But of course, I know that at some point the body gives out, and dance is the prerogative of youth.

So in my meditation I went a little deeper. What would it take to reach perfection in... chanting? Devotion for Krishna? Service?

Maybe perfection is to chant so many names of the Lord that they just circle around and around in my mind like the moon. Or maybe perfection is to feel so humbled by the tragedies of life that I fall at the feet of strangers. Or maybe perfection is to drink in scripture like cool water on a hot day.

All day. Every day. Never, ever stop. And death is not the conclusion of devotion, but the beginning.

Beginning of what?

I don't know. If I keep chanting, if I never, ever stop, maybe I'll find out.

My Escape

Tell me: what does it mean for you to escape?

And where would you go? A shimmering white beach? The summit of a mountain that touches the sky? Or maybe a holy village, a temple, or a sacred river?

But still, I ask you: have you really escaped?

***

I get out of the car and walk along the sandy driveway in the velvet summer evening. Light slants through the majestic oak trees, and Spanish moss forms golden canopies above my head. My mind whirs with a thousand plans and a thousand anxieties.

I reach the front door of a renovated barn and sigh. I slip off my shoes and enter a room with warm wood floors and saffron walls. I join the other students in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors and we fold our palms and recite prayers in unison.

We offer our respects to the earth, to God, to our guru, to the audience, and then we turn to the corner of the room to offer obeisance to the deity of Lord Nataraj – the Lord of Dance.

We begin to dance, and the room resounds with the rhythm of our feet. One by one, my thousands of thoughts drop away. My worries, daydreams, plans, schedule... my excitement, sadness, anger…

Everything.

When I dance Bharatanatyam, my mind washes clean. If I think about a single plan, even form a single sentence in my head, my hands slip, my feet fall off beat, and I lose my expression. It’s impossible to dance and to think.

Every moment I feel the fire circulate through my body; I focus on every moment to bend, jump, smile, and shift my gaze. Just to breathe is an adventure. Every moment is alive. I am alive.

This is my addiction to Bharatanatyam dance.

Amazing how in life so often we want to escape the present moment into an other world.

But dance is an escape from my world into the pure and present moment.

“The same stream of life
that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world
and dances in rhythmic measures.”
 Rabindranath Tagore 

Anapayani dasi, my dance guru

So please tell me now: what is your escape? 

Never Stop Singing

Six years ago, my friend Karuna and I had a discussion about dancing in kirtan. One could say that for one who has grown up in Krishna Consciousness, dancing in kirtan especially is the highlight of our religion.

Karuna said, “I love to dance, but I think I get carried away with the dancing - fancy moves, who's there, whatever - and forget about the essence of kirtan. So I asked Sacinandana Swami about his thoughts on this issue.

“He told me: Never dance so hard, or dance so complicated, that you stop singing. Never stop singing. Or rather, always sing in kirtan. With this as a foundation, dance your heart out!”

From this one conversation with my friend, and this one instruction of Sacinandana Swami, I decided to live every kirtan by this standard. When I sing in kirtan, I remember to look to the deities of Krishna, or the altar. I remember to look up and look around at the amazing devotees who surround me, and smile. I remember why I'm even dancing.

To always remember to sing in kirtan has transformed my experience of Krishna Consciousness… and my experience of the holy name.

Try it. Let it transform you.

Magic in the Dark

Yesterday, a thunderstorm struck the Sunday Feast. To escape the torrents of rain, everyone huddled under the main tent or streamed into the templeroom for powerful and beautiful bhajans. 

And then, the electricity cut out! The soft gray light from outside filtered in and lit the forms of Radhe Shyam. They were wearing green and dark blue – I seemed to be witnessing Radhe Shyam emerging from a forest, alive and mysterious.

Then my godsister Jackie invited me to help her put away the day outfit, which is quite a feat in Alachua on Sundays. In delight, I agreed and followed her into the pujari room. I settled into the service that I used to do once a week for nearly two years. I folded blue and green silk and placed jewelry in drawers. Sweet memories seeped under the door of my mind like scrolls of incense.

Later in the night, even the generator cut out – everything went pitch black. We couldn’t even see each other’s faces. So what else could we do? We dashed to the templeroom to dance! Lit by dim emergency lights, the group of us women danced in whirls to the rhythm of the kirtan. 

The kirtan came to a crescendo and the curtains for Radhe Shyam swung open. The altar was lit by candles, which captured the forms of the Deities in pools of bronze light.

And when I joined Jackie again in the pujari room, we continued our service by candlelight.

At the end of the night, I felt drenched in the scents of champaka and jasmine and silk. A garland encircled my wrist, a plate of mahaprasad was in my hand, and I was immersed in the images of Radhe Shyam.

Finally, the electricity came on again, and I laughed to think how typical this is of India but so shocking for America. 

When Jackie and I stepped off the temple verandah to go home, we paused to gaze up at the glimmering stars. Humility and peace washed over me. 

This is magic. This is home. 

The gray twilight, the lamps, emergency lights, candles, the starlight… they had all illuminated something last night, some magic in the dark.  

Convince Me

Nrityagram dance ensemble

I’ve been teaching my roommate, Shalagram, how to convince people to do stuff. You know, things they kinda wanna do and they would be so thrilled if they did, but they don’t (catch that?). So they need some persuasion.

So she was trying to convince me to attend her Odissi dance class. I refused. She tried several of my tactics – reverse psychology, reassurance: there’s no intense footwork, etc., – but I still refused.

Finally I said, “Look, Shalagram, I’m not going, okay? I had two exams and a presentation this morning and I’m exhausted." Then I paused. "But… if I were you trying to convince me to go, this is what I would say:

“Look, Bhakti, it’s the last time you’ll be able to come with me to dance class. It’s such a beautiful dance form, and my teacher is excellent. You haven’t danced in so long, and you won’t have to stress your foot out. And look, once you get dancing you’ll forget you were tired, you’ll be so thrilled to dance once again. When will you have this chance again?” I said. Yeah, that's what I said.

Shalagram just looked at me and started to grin.

I shifted in my seat, starting to smile, too. Then I laughed. “Um… wait… what do you wear? Same as for a Bharatanatyam class?”

So in a stuffy, carpeted, and tiny living room, I learned the base steps for Odissi.

My muscles were thrumming, my mind alive! At one point, the three other students transitioned into more intricate steps, so I simply stepped back to watch.

I found myself not calculating movements and timing and examining the students’ posture. I just watched, mesmerized. Every girl, no matter their physical appearance, held me spellbound by their grace. The movements so fluid, so full of grace, so drawn from a deep and ancient culture… these are the things that had me utterly devoted to Bharatanatyam, so completely in love with dance.

My eyes shone, and my body kind of numbed up, too, as it feels like when your whole body is crying as well.

Dance. Dance with discipline.

I swear to you, I felt connected with my soul in that stuffy little living room, moving my shoulders, creating circles, listening to the teacher speak out the rhythm, and feeling the blood rush through my veins… with a gentle smile on my face as I danced.

Dancing with Mother Mitravinda

I wrote this last night...

Mother Mitravinda passed away this morning. Gaura Shakti held bhajans at his house in honor for her this evening.

And as Jagi settled down to the harmonium to sing, he said, "So this was Mother Mitravinda's favorite tune," he paused and everyone went quiet. "I went to go visit her and I was singing this tune. Then she said softly, 'It's not fair,' and I asked, 'Why is it not fair, Mitravinda?' and she replied, "It's not fair because this is my favorite tune... and I want to dance but I can't,' She then bagan to weep,"

When Jagi sang the first mantra, chills ran down my spine. Everyone sang so deeply and so beautifully and my face shone with tears to remember Mother Mitravinda dancing. Her spirit moves me, even now as I write this.

I remember the very last time I danced with her - it was the Sunday Feast before she would go to the hospital to begin treatment. I was elated to still see her at the temple. At one point in the kirtan, we both raised our arms as we sang. And as we faced each other, the expression on Mother Mitravinda's face took my breath away. Her intensity, her prayer to Radha Shyamasundar, hit me like a wave, enough to bring tears to my eyes... much the same tears I wept at bhajans tonight. And suddenly I knew - this is the last time I will ever dance with Mother Mitravinda.

And so it was.

Now I am realizing, though, that really she hasn't stopped dancing. I know this sounds all poetic, but I believe that she dancing in the hearts of all the lives she has touched.

She's dancing in mine.

Bliss in Pain

I have not danced in so long that the thrill has faded from my veins. The other night for Prthu's memorial, so many were present to honor him that we spontaneously began to dance. I danced my heart away, shrugging away the chronic tendonitis in my foot. Exhilaration in every sense of the word.

Afterwards, I went for a japa walk with Shalagram... and I had painful blisters on my feet. I didn't get it. Was it my shoes?

And then it hit me. Ahhhhh... yes. I used to dance so often, I had had the feet equivalent to the hands of a seasoned mridanga player. But as any mridanga player knows, cease to practice and those ugly yet tough hands become oh so soft.

I never knew blisters could be this blissful.

To dance is to... live?

I know it's silly. It's real for me, though.

My foot/leg misalignment persists, and I wake up with a stiff foot now most mornings (oh yes, thank you, garba, for your help in that area). Feeling like the energy in my life just took a major downward spike in the past several months, I visited Mother Madhumati for guidance.

I echoed Bali's thought, "Man, this is cause for my spiritual life going down the tubes," I grieved. "I feel as though the flavor has gone out of my spiritual life, and the flavor of my spiritual life IS my life."

Madhumati replied, "Yes, it's almost as if dance is one thing you can enjoy in Krishna consciousness, where you can express yourself, without rules and regulations... and inspire others, too!"

I sighed deeply. "Exactly! Krishna consciousness can be so austere. Roping in the mind for two hours every day to chant a mantra, service at the temple, watching out ALL the time for all the offenses I make to devotees, the Deities, the holy name... and so on... and so on...

"But dance! To just dance for the Deities, with other devotees, bharatanatyam... Oh Mother Madhumati, what do I do?"

I know, it's silly for my spiritual life to depend on dance.

Maybe it's not, because just writing about this has me somber and wanting to finish this post.