Books and Temples

On the occasion of Srila Prabhupad's Disappearance Day

October 25, 2025

Dear Srila Prabhupad,

One fateful afternoon, long ago on the banks of sacred Radha Kunda, your spiritual master confided in you his grim prediction of the fate of his headquarters in Calcutta: “Agun jvalbe - there will be fire.” His disciples were fighting, even in their spiritual master's presence, over who would get to use which room. He said to you emphatically, “It would be better to take the marble from the walls and secure money. If I could do this and print books, that would be better.”

Then he turned to face you to deliver a direct instruction: “If you ever get money, print books.”

Print books you did. Many years later, you were writing your commentary on the Srimad Bhagavatam in Vrindavan and then commuting to Delhi to print these sacred volumes. You chipped away at raising funds, found places to stay, negotiated print run prices, personally oversaw the manual binding of the pages, and poured every ounce of your soul into these books.

You brought two hundred sets of the Srimad Bhagavatam with you to America - you told customs that no, these books were for distribution, not for sale. However, you did sell those books - but only to maintain your livelihood during that first lonely, difficult year of living in New York. You also put aside every penny you could from those sales, and by 1966 you had $200 in savings. Then, you dared to take one apartment and storefront - the storefront for $125 and the apartment for $75, so a total monthly rent of $200. Exactly what you had saved. And although you had some help to secure the first month or so of rent from wellwishers, rent is relentless. You eventually needed to take the money generated from selling books… into securing a “temple.”

That storefront temple was 26 Second Avenue, the place where the International Society for Krishna Consciousness was formed, where the tides truly began to turn towards sweeping you into sharing Krishna with the entire world. One little storefront, where it all began, and the value you put into such a place could be seen in those $200 of hard-earned savings from selling the sacred Srimad Bhagavatam. Always keeping in mind the dangers and warnings that your spiritual master had expressed on the banks of Radha Kunda so long ago, you also knew that a physical place would be where a society could take shape. You wanted people to come together to hear and discuss about Krishna as revealed within the scriptures, to see the Lord, to chant his holy name, to sing, dance, eat the most delicious prasad, to serve, and more.

We are all gathered here today, sitting or standing on these marble floors of a temple, in the presence of the Lord on the altar. Every single one of us has been moved and transformed enough to gather together under this roof for a single-minded purpose today - to remember and glorify Krishna’s devotee. Without this temple, we could not come together to uplift our minds and hearts. I can reflect upon, literally, thousands of experiences within these walls or just right outside under the verandah or the stars, that have awakened my soul, even if for only a glimpse. And everyone here could say the same, even if it was only once, even if for only a moment. As Krishna says in the Bhagavad-gita, “pratyakṣāvagamaṁ dharmyaṁ” this knowledge gives direct perception of the self by realization and is thus the perfection of religion.

That is what you wanted, Srila Prabhupad. That was what you knew, when you gave those $200 - a temple is meant to be a place for transformation, to awaken the soul towards our beautiful Lord Krishna.

Books are the basis, you would say, and they were literally the basis of the very first temple of the Hare Krishna movement. They are not meant to only be read within the walls of the temple, but read regularly within the walls of the temple of our minds. Engaging with the scriptures is what keeps the temple of our hearts clean, which then manifests in keeping the physical temple clean and open and pure. Otherwise a temple is just made of stones and bricks and marble, prone to being filled with quarrels and politics, as your spiritual master warned. Books are the basis for purity.

On this day of your disappearance, I am reflective, meditating upon your legacy and how you have shaped and impacted me through your books and through your temples. I am grateful to you for those many long, early morning hours of writing your divine commentaries on the Srimad Bhagavatam, wherever you were in the world. How you offered your commentary until your dying days, speaking into a dictaphone on your deathbed because you knew that every word had the power to transform for eternity. Every single time I open up the Bhagavatam, I am filled with a divine presence and am uplifted - a kind of “Bhagavatam therapy”, as my friends and I like to say. I am also grateful to you for the leap of faith you took back in 1966 to give all of the money earned from selling Srimad Bhagavatam for only one month’s rent so you could establish a temple and then a society. You have given me a place to come home to, and a place where my son now eagerly asks to come to on a daily basis. Even a two-year-old boy can see and hear and know Krishna, and transform his little heart to be peaceful and joyful and filled with wonder. What’s more, he gets to know you - by coming to your murti and touching your feet, he gets to solemnly whisper, “Padupad” and offer you a flower to smell.

You are here with us, giving meaning and purpose to every breath we take, whether by absorbing our minds in the words of the scriptures - “The Blessed Lord said:” - or by standing upon the marble of these temple floors to receive darshan of the Lord. Thank you, Srila Prabhupad. I pray that I may always take shelter of your books to purify my heart and lift my soul to Krishna, and may I bring a humble heart to take shelter of the Lord in the temple and the devotees.

Your aspiring servant,

Bhakti lata dasi

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. 

Only a few more weeks until our little one would change our lives forever. Until then, we were taking some time to pause and pray by visiting St. Augustine, a local and beloved historic town. We had just arrived and were planning on simply wandering towards the throbbing downtown. However, we passed by the cathedral, and a man in a suit and tie who stood at the wood doors handing out programs piqued our curiosity. A sign on a tripod announced that a performer would be singing ancient romantic ballads this evening.

"Is this an open program?" I asked the man. 

"Yes, and free," the man replied. "The concert has not started yet,"

My husband and I glanced at each other. We exchanged 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 here many times over the years. 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, which was 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 convinces to marry him, 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. 

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.)

What's more, no one was applauding after any of the songs, possibly because we all felt a little confused by the protocol. When I did decide to start some applause at one point, the performer herself reprimanded us, "You are applauding at the wrong time."

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.  

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. Her face remained calm and composed - she seemed to be almost oblivious to the beauty of her own voice. She exuded the energy of a woman 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 I had to contain my weeping. 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," 

"That is so beautiful," she said, "And of course, I can pray," Unshed tears shone in her eyes.

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? 

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

God is Great

I raised my palms and closed my eyes. The 99 names of Allah swirled around me, and I sung each name along with the chorus of singers in the recording. Each name flashed in my mind's eye, along with the meaning...

Al Khaliq (The Creator)...

Al Mu'min (The Inspirer of Faith)...

Al Mujib (The Responder to Prayer)...

Al Wadud (The Loving One)...

Each name cycled through me and my body rocked back and forth in the momentum. When the last name of Alllah was recited on the recording, concluding prayers rung out. 

Over the past many months as I have committed to learning the 99 names of Allah, I have reached out to old friends and teachers of  Islam on the internet. I've even asked my husband to ask a Muslim chaplain at work - what do those concluding words on this recording mean?? What is the translation? They're so beautiful, and I have been burning to know. I have been yearning to form those words in my mouth properly like a potter shaping smooth clay. 

Alas, I have had no response. 

The other morning, though, when the 99 names had been sung and those concluding prayers began to encircle me, I just belted out the words the best I could, in garbled Arabic, I'm sure. I caught a few words here and there, such as "Mohammed" and "Allah" and so I knew that God's great devotee was being glorified, God was being praised. 

As I sang, I realized that God does not care if my Arabic is perfect, or even that I know the exact meaning. All he sees is that I tried to learn the meaning, I tried to learn the pronunciation. All he sees is me in my living room with my palms raised, trying my best to glorify Him and His devotee with all of my heart. Tears came to my eyes. 

When the recording finished, I murmured, "Allahu Akbar" (God is Great) and knelt to touch my forehead to the floor. Chills washed over me again and again. God is not only great because he is the supreme Creator. God is great because he is The Loving One, the One who Responds to Prayers, no matter how mangled. God is Great because He sees my heart.   

I Can't Help Falling In Love With You

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

I can't help falling in love with you. 

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

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

My body goes still.

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

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

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

I can't help it.

I just can't.

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

Radha and Krishna - Radhe Shyam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/D8pCv-eivqM

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.

Closet Catholic

I entered the church and the vaulted ceilings lifted my breath and my gaze and my mind.

Inhale. 

Exhale. 

The morning light filtered through the high windows and stained glass. Warm pools of light illuminated wooden pews, cream-colored pillars, and the massive murals of Saint Brigid and Saint Emeric. The cloth of their painted robes billowed in an unseen breeze, their faces gentle.   

That day was our School Mass for the Immaculate Conception of Mary, which takes places several weeks before Christmas.

Although filling with children from ages seven to fourteen, the Church echoed with only quiet shuffles and murmurs. I paced down the center aisle then directed my eighth grade class to file down the wooden pews. When everyone had settled, I took a seat and gazed up at the giant effigy of Christ on the cross.

The service for this special day was filled with devotions for Mother Mary, songs and prayers in her honor. Towards the end of the service, I rose to direct my students to file out of their pew to receive the Eucharist, the sacred wafer that represents the body of Christ. I approached the priest and folded my arms across my chest, which is a sign that I won't receive the Eucharist itself as I am not Catholic, but I would like to receive a blessing. (As a note, one may receive the Eucharist even if one is not Catholic but for now this is my preference.) With a soft smile, the priest put down the wafer and placed his hand on my head in blessing. I felt warm all over. 

I walked back to my pew and took a seat. I could see many students had taken to kneeling again. Their elbows were placed on the pew in front of them, their palms folded, heads bowed in silence.

I swung down my kneeler with a soft clunk and knelt on the padded bar. I followed the lead of my students and also placed my elbows on the pew in front of me and clasped my hands together. I bowed my head. Sudden tears came to my eyes.

Thank you, Mother Mary.

Thank you for bringing me to this school to serve and to learn about you and your son, Jesus Christ.

Thank you, Lord, for always protecting me with your loving arms. 

I cannot escape You. You will always come for me, even if I do not ask you to come. You have come for me in the form of this position as the English Language Arts and Religion teacher. Every day I get to talk about you and learn about you and share your love. I didn't ask for this, but you guided me here.

That is grace. 

What an unexpected, undeserved gift. 

Thank you Lord, for showing up in my life, unconditionally. No matter the form you may take, you are here, you are here. 

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.

I Am Here

I woke up at 5am and checked my email and Facebook. I know, lovely way to start the day, right? Well in fact, it was lovely! I read an email that offered personal growth wisdom. Facebook was brimming with beautiful news and pictures - awards for my friends, gatherings of communities to celebrate the lives of special people, the smiling and effulgent faces of people with so much love etched in their eyes. Announcements and exciting travel plans and worldwide experiences of kirtan, sharing Krishna with the world...

When I placed my phone on a table and readied myself to begin my morning mantra meditation, I felt a little squeeze of sadness in my heart: I have nothing to share with the world that's that special.

I leaned against the wall and began to murmur the holy name, fingering my beads. Tiredness fell over me like a soft sheet. So I gently laid my body down. I slipped under the soft waves of tiredness, half-conscious. Nevertheless, my murmurs continued on, the holy name kept spiraling onward, my fingers kept moving across my wooden meditation beads.

Something interesting happened. I seemed to float out of my body and have this vision of seeing myself from above, lying there chanting japa, the predawn light slowly filtering into the room. Suddenly I was surrounded by the words: I am here, and I am chanting the holy name. 

The feeling behind those words was:

How glorious! How triumphant! I am complete. I am enough. I am here, I chanting the holy name. 

I am here.

I am chanting the holy name.

How glorious. 

For half an hour, the holy name encircled me, encircled me, and those words kept surrounding me, surrounding me. I kept coming back into my space on the floor, then zooming out to look at myself from the ceiling, the words reverberating: I am here, I am chanting the holy name.

I am enough. 

Dude, I was lying down, half-awake. Not exactly an accomplishment to trumpet on Facebook. And yet the holy name was so loving and so kind. Even though I was lying down and half-asleep, none of that mattered. I felt that the Lord saw my sincerity, my desire to chant, and that tiny little spark - no matter how hidden under sheets of sleepiness - was as pure and brilliant as the sun.

At last when I rose from the floor, I went to wash my face. I felt washed with gratitude and wonder. I didn't feel sticky or groggy or embarrassed. I just felt grateful. Grateful for another day to spend with the holy name, and that is enough, I am enough, He is enough. 

The Cost of Love

"Okay Maddalena, we love you. We're praying for you," I said. I gave one last wave. My future mother-in-law was lying on a hospital bed, dressed in a blue gown. She smiled, but I could see the tense lines around her eyes.

Maddalena waved back with her fingers. "It'll be over soon," she said. "Then we're done."

Rick and I left the hospital and walked out into the gray, windy, and rainy day. The surgery would take several hours to complete, as well as recovery time to wake up from the anesthesia. We would return when the surgery was complete.

The thought flitted across my mind: Maddalena would love to be greeted with flowers when she woke up from surgery. Maybe we could go to the store and buy some.

When we got home, thought, I got absorbed in work and lost track of time. After hours had passed, I glanced at the clock and my heart sunk - oh dear, much too late to go to a florist shop.

Rick and I put on our shoes and walked out the front door. I saw that Maddalena's hibiscus bush was blooming brilliantly, almost in defiance of such a gloomy day. The giant orange flowers twirled playfully, their centers a bright red, their stamens reaching out as if to say, "Hello!"

It is described that the flower represents Krishna's, or God's, smiling face. Maybe that's why we smile when we see them. I smiled and picked a hibiscus.

When Rick and I reached the hospital, I put the flower into a paper cup and filled it with water from the tap. We waited a long time, anxiously checking the computer screen to see when Maddalena would be ready for visitors.

At long last, we were ushered over by the doctor to discuss her condition - she was doing very well. Soon after a nurse guided us to Maddalena's unit. Rick entered first, and he held her hand. She spoke softly, her movements heavy.

Then she turned to me, and when she saw the flower, a smile blossomed on her face. I was struck by the sudden light that shone from her eyes. "Oh! You brought me a flower! How beautiful!" I sensed she knew exactly where this flower had come from, but it didn't seem to matter that she had grown the flower herself. I handed her the paper cup and she beamed. She then had me place the cup on the little hospital table.

Maddalena is a woman of great spirit and also movement. Not to be slowed down by an intensive surgery, she insisted on getting dressed in her own clothes right then, and with a call for a wheelchair to assist her out of the hospital, we were ready to go. "Where's my flower?" She inquired. "Bring my flower,"

I dutifully brought the flower.

When we got home, I helped Maddalena climb the stairs to her room to rest. When she was lying down in bed, she said, "Bring my flower, put it here,"

So I brought up her flower and placed it on her nightstand. I placed her cool hand in mine and sang to her prayers for protection, then gently slipped away.

In the ancient scripture the Bhagavad Gita, God says that one need only offer Him a leaf, flower, piece of fruit, or water with love, and He will accept it. This is the definition of bhakti, or loving devotion. I had given Maddalena a flower from her own bush, in a paper cup. And yet she saw the little drop of love with which that flower was offered, and that is what she treasured. Her heart was deeply moved by this flower, she had smiled, and her spirits had lifted because she had felt my love for her.

God can be satisfied with a crown of diamonds. He can be satisfied with a wildflower. He could be satisfied with a single drop of water. All that it takes is a drop of our own love, to offer what He already owns back to Him, and God's heart is satisfied. Amazing. The creator of the universe is satisfied by a wildflower.

This is bhakti. Bhakti costs nothing.

Love costs nothing.

Nothing.

I believe that bhakti is the expression of the heart, the soul. Bhakti is so simple, so breathtakingly, sublimely simple.

Inspire - to Breathe

Drip drops of rain pattered on my windshield. I careened around the corners of mountains, twisting the steering wheel, lost in thought. Music blasted from speakers and every so often I tapped my thigh in rhythm.

The rain softened, then faded away and the road became dry. The landscape was enshrouded in a white mist. I turned a bend and suddenly - the world lit up with gold. The mist shifted and moved at the feet of the mountains like a deep ocean, the sun a halo of gold just beyond the hills. My eyes widened.

"Oh. My. God." I said to my Jeep. I turned off the music. 

I picked up my phone camera and pulled over on the side of the road. Cars whooshed past. I took pictures, but this little electronic device did not do the light, the experience, the moment justice. How could it? How? 

I drove back onto the road, and in several miles the world unfolded in a magnificent display of glory. The sun smiled brilliantly, the hills glowing russet and emerald and sage. In the valleys, the clouds danced like golden rivers too joyful to obey gravity. 

"Oh my god. This is amazing. I can't believe this. I'm going to die." 

But then I fell silent. Those words did not encompass what was transpiring in my heart, the deepest essence of how my soul seemed to be at peace, to breathe, to be inspired by the glory of God. 

Unbidden, the words of one of my favorites songs came to my mind: "Mama mana mandire...." May You reside in the temple of my heart.

.

I sang this song on repeat for over half an hour. I got to witness the sky become pink, rose, azure, and fade into the velvet deep blue studded with diamond stars. 

My Lord. You are so beautiful. How unfathomable that you are so great, encompassing the magnificence of the world with a spark of your splendor. And even more magnificent is that You have taken up residence within my heart. Although my heart is poorly tended, messy, and dark, You are so patient, so kind. You are happy to observe, to always be there as my best friend, unconditionally. I pray that one day you shine within the sky of my heart like you did that day. 

Visit to the Temple

I am back in Hawaii with my parents for some time before I get married.

Hawaii is my monastery, a place of quiet, a place where I go deep within. It's just me and my parents here - temples and devotees and festivals are very far away. 

As a young teenager in Hawaii, my desire for Krishna consciousness became a blazing fire in the isolation of this island. I wanted only to move away to live in a community of likeminded devotees of Krishna. 

But I couldn't. I was underage! So for five years I lived here, burning to move away.

In those five years' time, though, I searched for God everywhere I could find Him. Nature became my temple. 

Whenever I beheld the beauty of nature that was so profound that it moved my soul, I would sing the song, "Mama Mana Mandire" - May You, my dear Lord, reside within the temple of my heart. This song became my anthem, long after I had moved away from Hawaii, even when I lived near a physical temple. I never wanted to take God for granted. Nature became the reminder that God is everywhere, including my own heart.  

I gradually lost my tradition to sing this song. Many years have passed since I have meditated in this way.

Tonight, I went to an old haunt of mine, a crest on a mountain where I watched the sun set over two oceans - an ocean of blue silk below and an ocean of orange and pink silk above. I was stunned that such vast beauty would be so silent and yet sing to the entire world - to the water, land, and sky. 

Unbidden, the words came to my lips, "Mama mana mandire..."

May You reside within the temple of my heart. 

I am realizing that God has always and always will reside within my heart. I need only sing to Him, acknowledge His presence, embrace Him.

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."

A Long-Awaited Bath

June 20th, 2013

I lived in the holy village of Mayapur, India for 8 months and I had never taken a sacred bath in the waters of the River Ganga. My very last day in Mayapur, I was on a mission to submerge my chanting beads in the Ganga. I had thought that maybe I would also bathe, but now that time was ticking closer and closer to my departure, I started to chicken out. It was impractical; I would have wet clothes, I'd need to take a shower and pack up...

Finally, at 1 in the afternoon with the sun high in the sky, I made my way to Prabhupad Ghat between the tall waving grasses. I approached Mother Ganga reverently and offered my obeisance, the silky mud pressing against my knees, palms, and forehead. 

I stood up, folded my palms and offered prayers. Then I crouched down and submerged my beads in the river, chanting the holy name. I swished the beads in the golden brown water, the sun glinting off of the surface. Reverent pilgrims were offering beautiful Sanskrit prayers before bathing.

I prayed to Mother Ganga to please support me in my vows on the path to the Lord.

I waded my way out of the shallow water and stood on the bank, gazing at the beautiful, sacred river. My heart began to pound. I should just leave, it's too late now, too much of a hassle...

Then I thought, "I would never forgive myself if I had come all this way across the world, lived in Mayapur for 8 months, came to her waters the day I left... and never took bath."

With that, I set my beads aside on the bank, took off my shawl... and wearing my full salwar top and pants I waded into the waters. The water was cool and sweet. The mud squished between my toes.  I was grinning, giggling. 

When I reached a spot about hip-deep, I slid back and dunked all the way down! Woo-hoo!! Cool water washed over me. I dunked again. I was immersed in cool golden sunlight. I dunked a third time and came up, palms folded, grinning, laughing. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for giving me the courage, thank you.

May I go out into the world now and share Your love. 

Krishna-shaped Hole

For as long as I can remember, ever since I was a little girl, I have always had this longing for something or someone. Something or someone is missing from my life. It's either new clothes, a temple, a community, adventurous travels, friends, a husband, an education, a house, a car, money, spiritual initiation, a guru.

Something.

Someone. 

And when I finally get what I want, I long for something else, I long for someone else. This longing has been a curse and a blessing. A curse when I long for material things, because I get consumed with a fire that burns me up. A blessing when I long for spiritual things, because I get consumed with a fire that lights my soul. 

Lately I have been consumed with a longing for furniture. Sounds silly, but it's true. I have this intense desire to really just get settled into where I live - I've been wandering the world for so very long and now I just want to live in. one. place. One. Place. Getting the perfect bed and curtains is a product of this longing for home. But it's a feverish search, my ideas keep shifting and changing, I feel consumed and burnt out. 

Lately I have also been missing Radha Shyamasundar from New Raman Reti. There's an ache in my chest of longing. I miss singing for Them, putting away Their clothes, dancing for Them, and just being within Their glowing glance. It's this ache that gets more painful and also sweeter. I want to forget the ache, distract myself, but at the same time I know that it's sweet. I feel that it's sweet.

My spiritual master Radhanath Swami once told me, "There's a Krishna-shaped hole in your heart and no one will be able to fill that hole - not your parents, not a husband, not me. Only Krishna."  

For the past several months, whenever I have found it hard to get to sleep, I call into my mind's eye the faces of Radhe Shyam. I meditate upon Their forms and soon enough my heart and mind are at ease and I find myself drifting off to sleep. Radhe Shyam fill that custom-made hole in my heart. And for that window of time, my longing for someone or something is quieted and my soul rests.

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.

Pleading My Case

Last year in Mayapur...

The cold seeped into my fingers. I stitched away at the delicate needlework on the piece of cloth I was embroidering with beads. Other Mayapur Academy students were bent over looms, huddled in their sweaters.

Keshavi Mataji came around to clusters of students. She gathered several of us and said, "So, you are now going to write. You are having a conversation with Lord Chaitanya. You want to go back to the spiritual world, but He is skeptical. So have a conversation where you convince Him that you want to go back." Keshavi Mataji handed us lined pieces of paper, then moved on to the next cluster of students.

I stared at the blank sheet of paper, then went back to my needlework. How would I ever convince someone that I wanted to go back to the spiritual world when really I didn't care about going back? What was the big deal, anyway? Why can't we just live and love here? The spiritual world doesn't only have to exist when I die.

Time was ticking. Finally, I set aside my needlework and picked up a pen. I wrote the following conversation:

Me: You came for me, Mahaprabhu!
Lord Chaitanya: Yes. I only want to know how and why you want to come with me.
Me: This world... this place is not my home.
Chaitanya: You often forget that.
Me: I am realizing that the only place I can give love with no fear, with all my heart, is with You.
Chaitanya: Nice words. How about showing them?
Me: I have been on this path to You my whole life, Mahaprabhu. Lifetimes, actually.
Chaitanya: This qualifies you to come back to the spiritual world?
Me: No. I have no qualification.
Chaitanya: Then tell me how you can come with Me.
Me: Because You love me unconditionally, especially because I have no qualification.
Chaitanya: You're tugging at my mercy, Bhakti lata.
Me: Exactly. I am an impudent beggar. I have no right to beg, to be hanging onto the hem of Your dhoti.
Chaitanya: Indeed.
Me: I am demanding the highest gift, even though I have no right to demand. But I am lost without You. I beg You take me home.
Chaitanya: You don't need to beg, my dear Bhakti lata dasi.
Me: Really?
Chaitanya: I have wanted you to come home with Me for thousands of lifetimes. I just wanted to hear from YOU.
      Come [holds out hand], let's go home.

***

When I recited this conversation out at the end of class to my fellow students, my voice broke at the end. A hush had fallen over everyone during these readings, and a hush fell over my own heart.

Take me home. Please. 

Tell Me Something About Krishna...

Over a year ago, I received a random text message from my friend Balaram:

"Tell me something about Krishna." 

I was taken aback. How often do I get asked that kind of question?? I wanted to just write back, "Um, He's God." But I took some time to deeply reflect, and then I sent him back a meditation.

Over the past year, Balaram and I have taken turns in writing the random text message: Tell me something about Krishna. Usually Balaram will ask me, and it always catches me off guard. Sometimes we share something silly, sometimes something profound.

Some time ago, I asked Balaram to tell me something about Krishna. Several weeks later, he finally responded.


"Krishna is in the rare moments when I truly connect with a person who is also in the pursuit of simultaneously living and understanding what it means to be alive.


That's one thing I can say about Krishna."

I can't help but feel that if you, dear reader, are in the pursuit of living and understanding what it means to be alive, then Krishna is alive and present in this very moment, as you read the words off this screen. I am honored to be in your association. Thank you.

It's your turn: tell me something about Krishna. Or better yet: tell the world something about Krishna.