A Krishna.com Interview

I was invited by Mahattma Prabhu to participate in his Live Krishna.com broadcast on December 9th, 2009. [e-mail subscribers need to click through to seedofdevotion.blogspot.com. You can also click through to http://www.krishna.com/en/tv and go to Episode #6]

The Last Knot

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

A Profound Answer

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh come on, Kirtan, just answer,"

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

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

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

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

"Well, cry with love. For God."

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

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

No Bounds

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

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

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

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

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

Pinnacle of Devotion

Possibly the most beautiful photo of Srila Prabhupad I have ever seen.

I meditate on this picture every day.

"There is no vow like chanting the holy name, no knowledge superior to it, no meditation which comes anywhere near it, and it gives the highest result. No penance is equal to it, and nothing is as potent or powerful as the holy name. Chanting is the greatest act of piety and the supreme refuge. Even the words of the Vedas do not possess sufficient power to describe its magnitude. Chanting is the highest path to liberation, peace and eternal life. It is the pinnacle of devotion, the heart's joyous proclivity and attraction and the best form of remembrance of the Supreme Lord. The holy name has appeared solely for the benefit of the living entities as their lord and master, their supreme worshipful object and their spiritual guide and mentor.

"Whoever continuously chants Lord krishna's holy name, even in his sleep, can easily realize that the name is a direct manifestation of krishna Himself, in spite of the influences of kali-yuga."

Srila Bhaktivinoda Thakura, in Saranagati (quoted from Adi Purana) 

Wish In My Pocket

A line of sixth grade boys stood tense on their heels, their eyes trained to the sky.

"What are they doing?" I asked as I settled down with my lunch at the picnic table with some of the other teachers of the Alachua Learning Center. The table was positioned only yards away from the boys.

"They're catching leaves," Yamuna replied.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. And we've got front-row seats for the show," she laughed. Just then a great sigh brushed across the fields and rustled the trees. In moments, leaves began to flutter through the sky like soft glitter.

"Here it comes," Jamie said.

The boys sprang to life. They chased, dived, and tackled the air, the leaves sliding and swirling through the air like taunts. If two boys set their eyes on one leaf, they tackled each other to the ground with shouts; and as if playing a joke, the leaf would slip away from both boys.

When a boy would at last catch a finicky leaf, he would thrust it into the sky with a victory shout. Then he would jam it in his pocket... so he could catch another one.

And then, every so often, a boy would yell, "Ha! I get to make a wish!"

"Oh, I remember that growing up!" I marveled.

"Yeah," Yamuna said, "if you catch three, you make a wish."

Suddenly, the image struck me. Thousands of small, shiny brown leaves carpeted the ground in all directions... but the boys did not want a single one. They wanted three leaves caught with their own hands; only then could they make a wish.

I've been pondering the lesson of that afternoon recess for weeks now, and I've begun to realize that chanting japa is like so many leaves in my pocket. God is not an accountant, keeping ledgers of how many rounds I've chanted. Like the leaves scattered on the ground within easy reach, Krishna does not want or need robots to chant His name.

Rather, when I move my hands across sandalwood beads day after day, it is a way to measure how much I'll train my eyes to the sky, how much I'll stand on my toes, how much I'll sacrifice my life to love God.

And every day, when I finish my rounds, I make a wish: Please allow me to chant Your name, every day, for all of my life. 

image by renegade graphics

Don't Walk. Run.

One cool morning in Varsana, India, four people set out to climb a mountain.

“Are we going to make it for Mangala Arati?” I asked my friend Bhanu.

“If we rush,” she said.

I looked up, where perched on the mountain was a temple, more like a palace, glittering with lights in the night. The sight held me in pause – just a few moments, because my companions were swift in their quest.

We wound our way through the silent village streets, and then began to scale the seemingly endless mountain stairs. One foot… in front of the other… keep going… I was so absorbed in the climb that when I finally looked up, we had reached the stone arc which lead to Sriji Mandir.

We emerged upon a platform lit by lights, and one last set of steps stretched up to the entrance of the temple, where the giant wooden doors stood shut. Crowds of people spilled upon the steps.

Our crew walked up and settled down as close to the door as we could get. “Get ready, Bhakti,” Bhanu said. “When the door opens, don’t think, just run. Run into the temple! There will be a stampede. If you don’t run, you won’t get in to see the Deity,”

“Okay, I’ll run,” I took deep breaths, my body tingling.

In a pavilion down the steps and on the edge of the cliff, a group of villagers sang bhajans; the drum matched the patter of my heart. The voices of the singers spiraled through the night. I looked out onto the sleeping village of Varsana – lights spread out like a glittering web, and I could see the spires of some temples lit up in the night. The breeze brushed past me up here, up on the mountain.

I whipped out my poetry journal and began to compose a poem.

Suddenly, Bhanu yelled, “Run!”

In one moment, all the villagers had jumped to their feet. I slammed my book shut. I too jumped to my feet and ran through the outer temple doors, which the pujari had not even finished opening yet. I kicked off my shoes and as I ran I stuffed my journal into my pack.

I couldn’t help grinning and laughing – for several moments I matched pace with an old woman in a colorful sari. At one point, our eyes met. Our eyes sparkled.

I dashed through into the open courtyard of Sriji Mandir and over to the main sanctum of the temple. Sriji Mandir is a bit unusual for a temple in India, for in this temple, women stand at the front, and men stand at the back. A banister separates the two sections.

So women began to push and gather in the front section. I dove in. I jockeyed my way to the center of the crowd and faced the altar straight-on. The curtains had not opened yet, but to the side the pujari waited in silence. I gathered many grins of complaints from the villagers, for I stood out like a beanstalk. I ducked a little, but I refused to move.

Women began to squeeze in… squeeze… in…

I spied my friend off to the side. “Bhanu!” I called out. “I can’t breathe!” The push and the crush was so strong, I didn’t even have room to bring my arms up to shield my chest. Panic rose.

“Just get through it. You’ll be glad you did,” she called back over the melee.

I took as deep a breath I could and wanted to laugh in amazement. But I didn’t have the breath to laugh.

When the curtains opened, a wave of emotion swept over the crowd. I felt like a stone in the middle of a river – still and observant of the roar of water. Everyone sang Hare Krishna in unison at the top of their lungs. I sang, too - I couldn't even hear my own voice.

I decided the crush on my lungs was worth the view, was worth this moment.

When the arati ended, the curtains closed and the people dispersed to the courtyard to circumambulate Tulasi Devi in dizzy circles. I settled to the back steps of the courtyard, just to watch this world spin.

Bhanu sat next to me. “Amazing huh? My guru, Sacinandana Swami, says that we should be eager for Krishna like these Varsana-vasis.”

One year later, even as I live here in Alachua - a very mild, Western community -  if I'm approaching the temple and I hear an arati bell, I break into a run. I have realized that that morning in Varsana taught me to jump to my feet to see Krishna. Don’t walk.

Run.

Or you might miss Him.

So. My poem remains unfinished in my journal. I think I’ll leave it that way.

I heard this man's song last year, and it still brushes the edges of my heart. He sings after the Mangala Arati service every morning at Sriji Mandir. [e-mail subscribers can follow this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTkv-g7oufg]