A Tale of Two Singers

Soft rain fell in the twilight. My husband held an umbrella over me as I stepped out of the car, and I ran a hand over my rounded belly.

Baby was quiet tonight. 

I waddled onto the sidewalk and we wandered towards the throbbing downtown of the historic town of St. Augustine. However, we passed the soaring cathedral and our curiosity was piqued by a man who stood at the grand wood doors in a suit and tie, handing out programs to guests who entered. Golden light spilled onto the cathedral steps to where we stood. A sign propped on a tripod near the man proclaimed that a performer would be singing ancient romantic ballads this evening.

"Is this an open program?" I asked. 

"Yes, and free," the man replied. "The concert has not started yet, but will start soon,"

My husband and I glanced at each other. We exchanged a look and a shrug that said, "Why not? Let's do it!" so we scaled the steps and the man handed us the programs. Although visitors from all over the world often toured this historic cathedral, Ghanashyam and I had actually attended masses and come to pray many times over the years not so much as tourists but as spiritual seekers. This evening's program, though, struck me as a bit out of place. Romantic ballads sung in a church? 

We stepped into the cathedral; soft lamps lit up the rows of gleaming wooden pews and the soaring ceilings made me sigh with peace. I ran a hand over my belly again, as was now becoming a habit in my eighth month of pregnancy. I was very aware that my little one could now hear everything, especially my voice, and could even feel my feelings. 

We sidled into a pew and sat down amidst the gathering crowd that softly chattered. I read through the  program that the man had handed us at the door and felt, again, a flash of growing confusion and unease. 

"Ghanashyam," I said, "these songs are about a man who becomes infatuated with a milkmaid who he marries, but then she cheats on him with another man in the village. Then he pines away and basically commits suicide out of jealousy and revenge. Why on earth would they be hosting a program like this in a Catholic church? Isn't this a place for worshipping God?" 

"I don't know," he replied, shaking his head. "They probably rented out the space. It is a strange program,"

A man emerged upon the raised altar/stage area of the cathedral and the crowd shushed. He introduced the piano player and then who the singer would be, as she was also a scholar and had dedicated much of her life and career to translating and performing these songs. He also instructed us to only applaud after the third, fifth, and eleventh songs (I think). With a swell of applause, the woman swept to the center of the stage. She wore a low-cut satin evening gown, her hair swept into a loose bun. In her middle age years, she reminded me of a flower who had begun to wilt. 

The woman's operatic voice spiraled into the air. Even though these songs were supposed to have been translated into English, I could not understand a single word, even taking into account the more dramatic singing style. The programs only gave summaries of the songs. So, knowing that I might be perceived as extremely rude, I looked up the lyrics on my phone, ducking my device under the pew. I found a translation - not the scholar/singer's, but it would have to do.  

Now that I understood the words, I became increasingly repulsed by the progression of the story. The man pining away. The woman leading him on. Getting married, only to have her eye straying to another man. She cheated.

What's more, no one was applauding after any of the songs, possibly because we all felt a little confused by the protocol. At one point I just decided to applaud after what I thought was the correct song, and everyone followed suit (sometimes you just need to be that person who starts an applause) but a few songs later, the performer herself reprimanded us, "You are applauding at the wrong time. Applaud after the _______ song." (I still don't remember what the numbers were.)

No one applauded again for the rest of the show.  

I glanced around at the magnificent setting of this cathedral and again felt a flash of confusion that this concert would be held in the house of God. 

Somehow, we endured to the very end. When we left, I felt that we had just immersed ourselves in a sticky story of lust and jealousy and ego and despair. "Sorry, sweetie," I murmured, rubbing my belly again.

Two days later, however, my husband and I entered that same cathedral for Sunday morning mass. Hundreds of people filled the pews and the brightness of the morning lit up the soaring ceilings. We sat in one of the very front pews. I wore a white maternity dress that flowed around my ankles when I walked, and I received warm congratulations from almost every person who made eye contact with me. I received them all graciously, feeling blessed.  

When the service began, an unassuming woman in her thirties stepped up to the podium. She wore a black, knee-length skirt and a simple cardigan, her hair pulled back into a bun. 

Then, she sang.

Goosebumps rolled over my arms and my body as her voice illuminated the entire cathedral. She sang in soft, high tones, the Latin sung with serenity and clarity. Although it may sound cliche, she had the voice of an angel, truly. Her face remained calm and composed - she seemed to be almost oblivious to the beauty of her own voice. She was simply doing her service.  

By the time this woman sang for the second or third time, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in English, tears poured down my face and my whole body seemed to weep with the beauty of the praise and prayer to God. I could not remember the last time I had experienced being so moved by anyone's singing. 

I experienced the sharp contrast of the woman who had devoted her life to learning to translate and sing for her concert about the man driven mad with lust and jealousy over a milkmaid, the indecipherable singing and the confusing applause protocol. How her voice had ultimately dragged my husband and me down (maybe even our baby), and most likely many others as well, whether they were aware of it or not. 

But in this very same place, another woman was using her talent to sing songs of worship to God. I reflected how her voice was lifting up hundreds of people to access a place of peace, prayer, and love within their own hearts. Maybe I was a little overly sensitive as a woman who was eight months pregnant, but I could feel the joy and beauty surround my little one. 

After mass, I approached the woman, along with my husband, with tears in my eyes. 

"Congratulations," she said with a smile, glancing at my belly.

"Thank you," I replied. "Thank you for singing so beautifully. I actually wanted to ask you something. You see, we are waiting to find out the gender of our child. But as you were singing I felt this desire in my heart to ask you for your blessings, that if we have a girl that one day she may sing like you in service to God," 

"Of course," she responded, "That is so beautiful," unshed tears shining in her eyes.

I extended an invitation and said, "If you like, you may touch my belly," 

"Really?" she said. 

"Yes," 

And the woman reached forward with tender fingers and fell quiet, a smile gracing her face.  

Although the Lord blessed us with a son, I am sure that that woman's blessing still reaches my child at its essence. Yes, maybe one day he will literally sing as a service to God. But, more importantly, is how he uses his God-given energy and talents in this world. 

To degrade?

Or to uplift? 

May the woman's blessing encourage my son upon the more fulfilling path. 

The Purpose of My Body and Soul

Mammals are warm-blooded, have fur, and produce milk. Milk is the liquid gold that sustains the offspring of all kinds of mammals, from blue whales to kangaroos to, yes, human beings. 

But on the day my son was born, I produced no milk. 

What's more, he seemed to be having trouble being able to even suck, which is a cornerstone skill of survival for an infant mammal. 

Harrowing months unfolded where I gradually learned how to produce milk and my son underwent procedures and countless physical and occupational therapy appointments to learn how to suck. 

Through it all, I prayed and prayed and prayed to Mother Yasoda, Lord Krishna's mother, to please allow me to nurse my son. I prayed to Mother Mary, Lord Jesus's mother, to please help us. All I wanted was to bond, to fulfill my role as a mother. Wanting to and not being able to fully sustain my child with my own milk and needing to supplement with formula had me in an existential crisis: was I even my son's mother? Of course, that makes absolutely no sense. After all, I carried him for nine months and gave birth to him, and most important of all I was  caring for and loving him with all of my being. I kept telling myself that while human milk is certainly liquid gold for my human baby, it is still only a material substance. What matters most as a mother is my love and care.

But still, I wanted that unique connection.

Over the next few months, there were even some periods of time where the puzzle pieces began to fit and we were well on our way to establishing a nursing relationship. 

But then the pieces scattered and fell apart. I climbed mountains in my journey to establish a milk supply. I crossed oceans in the journey to help my son suck properly, as there were complications. I climbed higher and higher and swam farther and farther, a kind of desperation stealing over my heart. I practically earned a PhD in infant physical and occupational therapy, tongue ties, and lactation and was in constant contact with every expert and doctor I could talk to. I tried 

every

last

thing. 

When Arjuna was about four months old and I had turned over every stone I had ever seen on our path, my day of reckoning came. While Arjunas physical issues had resolved he was healthy and happy other aspects of our nursing relationship were simply not moving forward. I prayed and I wept and realized I needed to let go of my dream of nursing my son. I had to grieve the loss of that special bond.

I had already been giving my son special attention when I fed him with a bottle. But I began to pour my soul into the process. I would find his eyes in every session, ensuring he was looking at me with his oceanic and unblinking baby gaze, and I would murmur, "I love you." 

A few months passed. One day I was in the rocking chair feeding my son, bathed in soft sunlight. We were listening to a beautiful track called "Govinda," which filled the air with the holy name. We kept gazing into each other's eyes and I kept murmuring, "I love you, Arjuna," and I wept and wept to see that he was receiving my love. That is all that I had ever wanted, actually. I had only ever just wanted to express my love through giving my child milk, sustaining his life and sustaining our connection. In those moments, I realized that Mother Yasoda and Mother Mary did answer my prayers.

After all, I am not truly a mammal, and neither is my son. We are eternal spirit souls, created only to give and receive love. 

Shore of Peace

I was bathing my son at the very edge of the shallow end of some kind of pool. Water lapped at his soft, pale skin and his brown eyes gazed into mine with unwavering trust. 

I turned to retrieve some kind of soap, and in a second he had slipped from my hands. My whole body lit fire with absolute terror - I watched my son sink below the dark blue water, his glowing form vanishing so quickly into the depths. His gaze still held mine - the gaze of trust. 

Thoughts chased through my mind within those horror-stricken milliseconds - 

Dive down, now! Quickly, there's still time! 

     But how will I find him in the darkness?

Just keep your eyes open!

    How deep is this water? What if I run out of air?

Then come back up to the surface and keep diving until you find him! 

    What if he slips out of my hands? He's so small, so slippery. 

Do it now, Bhakti! 

And then, within the chaos of those thoughts, a shrapnel of light pierced my consciousness:

I could plunge into the chaos and the drama of desperately trying to rescue my son - 

Or I could wake up. 

Wake up from this dream. 

Do it now, Bhakti. 

I dragged myself from the depths of that dream, washing ashore to consciousness. I laid in bed, taking deep breaths, and I glanced over to see my baby boy sleeping beside me, his face angelic, his breathing steady. 

A strange, grounded peace permeated my body. One could say that I had just experienced a nightmare that could haunt me for years to come. But I saw it for what it was - a nightmare. No more substance than a ghost. I had chosen to disentangle myself from the drama of something that never happened. 

I had chosen reality.  

I've heard all my life from the scriptures that this material world is compared to a dream, and lying in bed that night I realized that teaching deep within my heart. I can get so caught up in the drama of this world, entangling myself in pain and sorrow. But there is a spiritual reality to wake up to. A place where I belong, a place where there is no drama, only the electrifying wonder of living out my soul's purpose of serving and loving God and others. 

I have had nightmares regarding the health and safety of my child since the day he was born. Sometimes they feel so real I wake up saying things to my husband and he just has to realize that I am half sleep talking. Maybe this is a phenomenon other mothers can attest to. 

And you know what? Maybe even swapping tales of nightmares would be strangely gratifying. 

But it's all drama.  

Because none of them were real. 

So what IS real? What to talk about instead? What to absorb my mind in instead? 

I realize that those questions are the ones that lead me to God, because He is real and above this nightmare. He is the shore of peace. 

athato brahma jijnasa 

"Now is the time [in this human form of life] to inquire into the Absolute Truth" 

The Moon is Always Full

I have been alive for 36 Janmastamis. 

I remember attending festivals in celebration of Krishna's Appearance Day as a child, running around in fancy clothing with my friends at night outside, thrilled to have the go-ahead once a year to stay up until midnight.

I remember dressing up to attend the festival throughout my teenage years, bubbling over with anticipation to see who would be coming (any cool girls and any cute guys??), and relishing the midnight feast. 

I remember traveling the world and settling into a community in my adult life, experiencing Janmastami in places like Hawaii, England, Belgium, New York, and Florida; some of these festivals were attended by tens of thousands of people. I've performed in many dances and dramas, dressed up in gorgeous princess-like outfits, danced in many midnight kirtans, offered all kinds of services from decorating to cutting up vegetables, and received the most magnificent darshans of the deities of the Lord. 

Today, I wore leggings and stayed home all day. 

I asked Ghanashyam if he wanted to go to the temple, and he said gently, "Only if you're there," 

And so we took darshan of the deities with our 3-week-old son Arjuna in our arms, lying on the daybed in the nursery, using Ghanashyam's phone to stream the live webcast from our local temple. The images were somewhat grainy, but we oohed and aahed with wonder anyway.  

Then later in the evening, Ghanashyam carried over the harmonium and a Krishna book and placed each on the daybed. I gently sang kirtan and Ghanashyam joined in while our little one laid down and played on his chest. Arjuna's wide eyes gazed at us and he stayed (mostly) still.

There we were, wearing t-shirts and leggings/pajamas at home, but we were singing the holy name and honoring the Lord. We smiled at each other, and my heart filled with a kind of golden joy. 

I thought, well, this is our child's first Janmastami. This family is the adventure that Ghanashyam and I have chosen. Images of all those exotic and wondrous Janmastamis wheeled through my mind and I marveled at how this simple scene felt just as wondrous. 

Then I held Arjuna in my arms and Ghanashyam read about the birth of Krishna from Krishna Book. His deep voice described how even though Krishna was born on the eighth day of the waning moon when really the moon should be rather obscure in the sky, nevertheless the moon rose full, just to honor the Lord. When he had finished reading, I said to Arjuna, "Well, my son, today is the birthday of your best friend. Krishna is Arjuna the supreme archer's best friend, and Krishna is personally your best friend, my little one, He is there in your heart." 

Soon, our son will begin to experience his own panoply of Janmastamis throughout his life, maybe run around with his friends or perform in dramas or offer service, maybe travel the world and experience the thrill of a familiar tradition in an exotic place. But I pray that he may always know and understand that the moon of Lord Krishna may always be full within his heart, that even in the simplest of moments that Krishna is his best friend.

a few hours old

Discovering My Best Friend in a Foreign Country

In 2005, at 18 years old I bought my first car, a lovely silver 2000 Honda Civic. 

After the harrowing purchase process (because buying a car is *always* harrowing) I drove off the lot, hypersensitive to the sounds and controls of this new and expensive machine that was now under my care. 

Tense, I rode in silence down Main Street in Gainesville. But the silence was not so silent. 

Is that whining and roaring normal? 

I don't think so. 

I just bought this thing! 

Taking a deep breath, I turned my car right back around. Maybe I could still get a refund...? I had just signed a bunch of papers, though, saying that there could be no returns as soon as I drove off the lot. This car was AS IS. 

"Oh, hullo again," The car salesman greeted me with a grin. "How's your new vehicle?" 

"Not so good," I said. "The engine is really loud. I think there may be a problem," 

The man frowned. "Let's take a look," 

He got into the driver seat and turned on the car, revved the engine, and then got out, the car still running. "Ma'am, your car is completely normal,"

"But..."

"If the sound bothers you, maybe just turn on the radio," he said nonchalantly. 

"Radio?" I said, bewildered. I had not listened to the radio since I was 12. 

"Yeah, some music."

I sat behind the wheel, glancing at the radio controls.  I had only obtained my official driver's license a couple weeks earlier - driving in general overwhelmed me already. I was still getting the hang of how to turn on windshield wipers, now I needed to figure out the radio... while I drove?? 

I pulled away from the dealership and headed back down Main. 

That sound! How could the dealer say that was normal? I had driven in many, many cars in my life and none had ever sounded that loud. I felt like I was standing on a runway underneath an airplane taking off every time I pushed the gas pedal. 

Maybe it's just 'cuz this is the first time you're the driver and not just a passenger, a sneaky voice said. 

I drove for a couple miles, jittery. I kept looking at the radio. Finally, I reached over and fiddled with a few dials - static filled the car. I pressed the SEEK button and landed on a station. Music played through the speakers loud and clear. 

"... I will sing of your mercy 

that leads me through valleys of sorrow  

to rivers of joy..."

A moment of astonishment, wonder, and utter confusion hit me. Was this song talking about... God? On a public radio? I had never heard of such a thing. I had only ever heard pop music, NPR, and rock on the radio. 

I continued to listen to the beautiful, haunting song overlaid with piano and guitar, realizing that indeed, the singer was speaking to God, placing a trust in Him that through all the pain and sorrows of this world, he would "still look to the heavens / I will still seek Your face."

I began to sob. Yes, while I was driving down University Avenue in busy traffic. 

And then, the song was over.

I pulled over and turned off the radio, the music still playing through my head. The words had lanced straight through to my soul, bypassing my brain and even my heart. Krishna Himself seemed to have spoken to me. 

I wanted more. 

So began my exploration and deep love for Christian contemporary music. Year after year I discover some new song that speaks to my soul and deepens my love for God. I experience how these Christians are speaking of the same God that is enthroned upon my own heart: Krishna. He is the same. His beauty, love, and mercy is the same. 

I later discovered that the name of that song was "The Valley Song" by Jars of Clay. It holds a special, revered place in my heart as the very first song where I discovered God so profoundly in another tradition, like stumbling upon my best friend in the street in a foreign country. It's at the top of my curated playlist, but I haven't listened to it in years. 

Until today. 

For some reason, I was drawn to listen to this song while I did laundry. Then, when I went out for a walk in the cold twilight, I put the song on a repeat. For over half an hour, the tender, haunting, soulful lyrics wound their way around my soul, prompting me to glance up at the heavens, to seek Krishna's face in the moon and the stars. I entered a deep, reflective space where I realized that the sorrows of my heart shall never, never end as long as I am here in this world. I belong with my Lord. He is the only one who can lead me to rivers of joy.

I felt a tender desire in my heart that at my funeral this piece would be played. 

The memory of how I had discovered "The Valley Song" kept rising to my mind, and I kept smiling to myself. 

Then I realized - I was 18 years old. 

I am now almost 36 - that was literally half my lifetime ago. I shook my head in amazement. Life shall continue to wheel on and wheel on, moving faster and faster towards death. But I have a talisman here in my soul, a prayer to trust in my best friend through the valleys of sorrow. He'll lead me on.  

Person Worship

One early morning, dressed in a traditional sari and acting in my role as a kind of priestess [pujari], I was seated in front of two small brass deities of the divine couple, Radha and Krishna. I intoned, “Su swagatam,” then immediately said, “Idam asanam,” and gestured with an open palm from the deities to two small, elaborately stitched sitting cushions. 

The first mantra I spoke simply translates as “Welcome!” and the second one translates as “Please, have a seat” - I was welcoming these deities to please, metaphysically, have a seat on these cushions. 

This welcoming of brass deities to please have a seat could seem strange. But within my spiritual tradition, deity worship is an expression of love and devotion, and I have been surrounded and inspired by this culture since I was a child. Ten years ago, I traveled to a holy village in India to formally study at a renowned Academy this ancient science. 

It sounds archaic to be intoning mantras and making mystical hand gestures (mudras) and learning obscure recipes. Sounds maybe, even, a little Harry Potter-ish. But by the time I graduated from the Academy, I had the most profound realization that deity worship is a practice to learn how to treat God as a person. 

One of the core practices is to offer Reception, which is, basically, hospitality.  

You are welcome here, come on in. 

That's all. 

Just treat God like a person. As the saying goes, we should love people and use objects, but so often we use people and love objects. 

I had the epiphany: What if I used some of these principles to treat PEOPLE like people?? 

I began to apply the principles of deity worship to how I offer hospitality in my own home. Whenever someone walks through my front door, I will immediately say some variation of: “Welcome, so good to see you! Come on in!” and then I will say, “Please, have a seat,” and actually physically gesture to a chair or the sofa. This simple physical movement, or mudra, is nothing mystical. It’s a powerful gesture from host to guest that communicates, “You belong here.” And then I will offer a glass of water (idam paniyam) - I never ask, I just place the cup of water in their hands or on a saucer on the table. 

The response of gratitude by my guests over the years has been astonishing, some even crowning me as the “Queen of Hospitality” but I just have to laugh because ultimately most times what I’ve offered was so simple - a welcome, a seat, some water.  

Hospitality is transcends religion or culture or time and place because it is the science of transformation of heart. Deity worship is not "idol worship", it is "person worship" - a brass deity of the Lord becomes a person, a person we can serve and know and love. 

And when I apply the principles of deity worship with other people in my life - whether family or strangers - they truly become persons I can serve and know and love. 

For the Wisdom of the Sages Ashram Month this August, I will be teaching a one-week segment on the culture of bhakti yoga. You will learn the principles of character and practices that create a transformational culture of love and devotion. Come join us! For more information, follow this link to the Wisdom of the Sages website: https://www.wisdomofthesages.com/ashram-month

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