Flower Whispers

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

Art & Words Duet: Day 8

Flower Whispers

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

Beloved

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

Art and Words Duet: Day 7

Beloved

For years upon years

I searched for The One

I cried many tears

and on the years spun

I looked inside

and looked out there

was tempted to hide

but honed my prayer

When I discovered my Lord

He filled the hole in my heart

I let down my guard

for my heart had become whole 

I became calm and content

spending long days alone

I watched the sun rise and set

Peace covering my soul

Now I didn't even want to get married

For my life was going fine

But of course that was when the Lord carried

me to His beloved

and mine. 

Your Shore

Below is a poem I wrote several years ago. These words came to me very strongly this evening, and I have been deeply absorbed in what it truly means to return once more, once more, once more to my spiritual teacher and my spiritual path. 

Bhakti lata At A Glance

This was my homework assignment today for one of my English classes:

Draft your own autobiographical poem and follow this structure:

The first line is your first name, followed by a line of three words that describe you to yourself. The next line is something you love, then something you hate, something you fear, and something you wish for. The last line is your last name.

Bhakti lata
Searching, committed, deep
I love to listen to the murmurs and sing like a tiger
        the Lord's holy name
I hate my own crippling weaknesses
I fear that I am unlovable
I wish to love unconditionally
Dasi

P.S. So, dear reader, what's YOUR poem?

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 )

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.

Proof

On my evening walk, I reveled at every step the poetry and power and perfection of nature. I marveled at the red-brown leaves of the maple tree and how when the sun shone through the leaves the tree seemed to be made of glowing embers. Or a field splashed with the soft white globes of dandelions. The towering castles of clouds in the distance made bright by the evening sun. The air was intoxicating - the fragrance of life. New leaves, flowers, grass, earth... Truly, God is a genius. I bent towards a bush covered in thousands of little white flowers. Each one was so perfect, delicate, exquisite in color and design. The only proof that I  need that God exists is to take a walk down my road. 

The Art of Invitation

Love is the art of invitation. We can't force invitations - that's why the experience of lack of invitations in our life can hurt so badly. It's a lack of love. But, we are surrounded by invitations every day, all day, like beautiful cards flying around us in whirlwinds. We need only open those envelopes and RSVP to the conversation, the party, the walk in the park, the wedding, to lead a kirtan, to accept a proposal. We need only be willing to write a couple invitations ourselves and send them off to the people we're most afraid of welcoming in to sit down next to the fireplace of our heart. Never underestimate the power of an invitation - to give one, to receive one. It is love in jeans and a t-shirt.

(photo by femiology.com)

A Freewrite Poem for my Spiritual Master

Thank you

I would be stumbling
stumbling
stumbling
in the jungles of my mind
searching
searching
frantically
searching for love
My soul would be weeping
weeping
every day
weeping
Thank you for giving me
a reason to live
a way to die
at peace
I would be so lost
so lost
searching for love
in all the wrong places
sinking in quicksand
sinking
I would be trying
to capture the moon
in a mirror
I would be clawing at my face
searching for beauty
I would be so lost
so lost
seeking guidance
in a broken compass
I am weeping
weeping
knowing that your love
gives me strength
to live
I am humbled
by your love.

Thank you. 

My Body is a Temple

Ever met a Hare Krishna and wondered what in the world was on his or her forehead?? And why? 

Tilak is a marking that Vaishnavas apply to the forehead with sacred clay. As a kid I wore tilak but rebelled against it as a teenager. I didn't want to be labelled as "one of those Hare Krishnas." Besides, I didn't really know how to put it on and I always ended up with mud all over my face. 

Then a couple years ago I had a very odd inspiration. The tradition for the holy month of Kartik (October-November) is to make a special vow, or vrata, and surrender that effort to the Lord. So I decided to do the unthinkable:

Wear tilak every single day. 

To school, to gatherings, and even - who woulda thunk? - to the temple. I figured that a) I would get over my tilak phobia, and b) I would become a killer tilak artist by the end of the month. 

So for the first day of Kartik, yes, my tilak was all over my hair and forehead in messy streaks, even after spending ten minutes trying to perfect it. When I went to school, I thought I would get weird looks. But I didn't. What I got were questions. And the question always came: "Why?"

As the month progressed, I began to enjoy answering these questions because they would always stir up a conversation about God. And when the last day of Kartik rolled around, sure enough, my tilak phobia had vanished. 

And, if I say so myself, I was a killer tilak artist. 

Over the years as I've traveled around the world with tilak upon my forehead, I've been asked that question countless times: "Why?"

Inspired, today I wrote this concrete poem as one of my answers.   

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An Unexpected Guru: Around the curve of the bench, I saw a young man absorbed in a small black book with gold on the edges of the paper...

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.

The Most Beautiful Poem

I flip through the pages of a thick book by my favorite poet, seeking inspiration to write a speech for a college class. I skim for eye-catching words, but then land upon a poem that draws me all the way in.

"Wow," I breathe.

I softly knock on Shalagram's door. "Come in," she says.

She's eating dinner in front of her window, and I settle upon her mattress. "May I read you a poem?" I ask.

"Sure," she says. "Who is it by?"

"The ancient Sufi poet, Hafiz," I reply.

When I finish my declamation, we sit in silence for several moments. Then, "Wow," Shalagram breathes.

"Stunning, no?"

"Amazing. Bhakti, do you think it's possible to have that kind of love?"

I ponder for a moment. "It's not possible with material love," I say. "Only spiritual love. I realize that... Srila Prabhupad has shown this love to us. How profound that he has shown this love to thousands and millions of us."

We sit in silence for a couple moments more, pondering this poem.

***

"Some Fill With Each Good Rain"

There are different wells within your heart

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far too deep for that.

In one well

You have just a few precious cups of water,

That "love" is literally something of yourself,

It can grow as slow as a diamond

If it is lost.

Your love

Should never be offered to the mouth of a

Stranger,

Only to someone

Who has the valor and daring

To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife

Then weave them into a blanket

To protect you.

There are different wells within us.

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far, far too deep

For that.

Amidst the Waves

I write this in Madhava's kirtan at Radha Govinda Mandir. My pen moves to the throb of the mridanga drum which reverberates like the most powerful heartbeat. Voices fill the room in ocean waves that rise and fall, rise and fall in the full moon rising tide. The tide of the holy name keeps rising.The waves wash over me. I am the sharpest, roughest stone, but the waves wash over me, again and again... over, above, around... over, above, around... if I stay in these waves, they will wash my heart, smooth my heart, wash away the rock that surrounds the diamond of my soul.

Humility as a Verb

How Do I Listen?

How

Do I

Listen to others?

As if everyone were my Master

Speaking to me

His

Cherished

Last

Words.

- Hafiz (14th Century Sufi Poet) 

This weekend at the 24 Hour Kirtan in New Vrindavan, I learned that one facet of humility boils down to a verb.

Listen.

No, not hear. Listen. I have realized that it is impossible to be proud and to listen. Listening is a verb of the heart - it means that I set aside my own life, my own chatter, and my own ideas to look into another's eyes and absorb what he or she says. There is no agenda, no plan.

Just listen.

So at noon on October 30th, I took a vow of silence. I chose to set aside my life, my chatter, and my own ideas for 24 hours to look into the eyes of the holy name with no agenda and no plan. I opened my ears to hear.

Many kirtaniyas stepped up to the microphone to sing the holy name. I slowly set aside my inner music critic. Hour after hour passed and the holy name began to circle around and around in my head until it became the only sound I could feel - even the words to the mantra began to roll across my mind's eye.

In the early evening, I remembered the Hafiz poem, and it began to echo in the halls of my strangely quiet mind. Each kirtan became transformed, as if each devotee who sang truly was my beloved master, and each mantra was the last words he or she would ever say. Each kirtan rested like a jewel upon the thread of the holy name.

I was disarmed by surprise. I rarely ever feel such unconditional acceptance.

I began to listen to devotees even as they spoke to each other at lunch, or when they walked down the halls. I found Krishna in every word, even if that wasn't the intention. At times I wanted to walk up to someone, anyone, and beg, "Please, tell me your realization. Please tell me about the holy name, please tell me anything,"

When the clock struck noon on October 31st and the kirtans came to a tumultuous close, I slipped away from the templeroom and avoided crowds. Soon, too soon, the quiet of my mind would slip away, too, like water cupped in my hand.

Maybe if I pray enough, I can listen with my heart beyond 24 hours... beyond one week... beyond years... decades...

...Or maybe I will leave this world tomorrow. Then I pray to listen to my master of the holy name when I speak my own cherished last words.

"Silence means don't talk nonsense. Whenever you speak, you speak about Krishna. That is real silence."
Srila Prabhupada, Vrindavan 1974

The Midnight Writer

6 minutes to midnight.

Now 5.

The moments at this time of night feel so deep, so quiet, like a lake that reflects the sky in a vast mirror.

As of late, my life runs like a clock, and the gears of my life fit together so that I go from one place to the next, one class to the next, one assignment to the next... tick, tick, tick... click, click, click... sometimes the pace speeds up to dizzy whirls, and I can barely find a moment to steady myself and catch my breath.

But right now, it's 2 minutes to midnight, and while I watch the clock, there's no ticks, no clicks. Time right now just feels like that vast lake, all the moments of eternity at rest beneath the mirror.

These midnight moments bring out my soft words and poetry. All day long I write hard prose that brims with knives of citations and theses. But now, there's no professor to please, no manuscript to submit, and it's just me seeking solace in words.

These are moments when the world is asleep. I get to find a glimpse of peace, like watching shadows pass over the moon, and listening to rhythm of my breath as I dream.

Midnight.

Good night.

Kaleidoscope

Kaleidoscope

Peer inside

my kaleidoscope

and you will find

shards

of stained glass

God is the hand

that twists

the barrel

and the shards

of glass

tumble inside of me

the designs

are a dance

of pain and beauty,

made symmetrical

by the lens

of God.

the perfection of silence

the perfection of silence

a reflection on the kartika new vrindavan 24 hour kirtan

the holy name
glows in the dark
like the field of flames
in the templeroom
which dance
in the hands
of devotees
of God

for one day
the holy name
resounds upon my tongue
and bathes my mind
in stillness

for one day
the sound surrounds me
and enfolds me
in rhythm
with my hearbeat


for one day
only Your name
dances upon my tongue

this
is the perfection
of silence.

When Did I Lose You?

When did I lose you?
My voice is hoarse
from calling your name
here in this ocean
of sand dunes
where I wander.
I glimpse
amidst the dunes
a mirage
of a mockingbird
who flutters to the sky.
Her song echoes
beyond the horizon
inside of me.

When did I lose you?

Temple

Temple

Floor

of ocean glass

Ceiling

of rose satin and stars

Tonight

I will stroll upon the water 

and lose myself

in the temple

of Your beauty

My Life Is Like a Sari

My Life is Like a Sari

a birthday poem

My life is like a sari

My breaths

are the threads

woven in thousands of rows

upon the loom

of my body.

My life is like a sari

the first thread

and the last thread

          my first breath

          and my last breath

touch but in one moment

one moment

when the sariweaver

cuts me from the loom

and presses the edges

of my life together

My life is like a sari

I pray 

that the final thread 

is woven in the design 

of the name 

of God.

photos courtesy of blue mango india and sarisafari.com