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? 

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 

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.   

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. 

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.

Wisdom of a Stranger

I sit on the porch of the Krishna House in Gainesville, reading. I look up from my book to the quiet street and see a man walk by. Something about his face speaks of such sadness, such... sorrow. I feel this urge in me to somehow walk out to him and hand him a plate of sanctified food, prasadam. Or ask him a question.


Something.


But he keeps walking by, and I feel very shy. How silly! Who am I to run out and start bombarding some stranger with food and questions?

He starts to disappear around a corner.

But a voice murmurs to me in my heart: When will this moment come again?

I put aside my book and dash off the porch, running towards the man. I call out, "Excuse me! Excuse me!"

The man turns, surprised to see a girl running towards him. "Yes?" he says gruffly.

When I reach him I say, "May I ask you a question?"

"Is this about parking?"

I take in his uniform, which I realize is a polo shirt which has embroidered on its front Parking Attendant. "Oh, no, this isn't about parking," I say.

"Then what? What's your question?"

I take in a deep breath. I look him in the eyes and say, "May I ask you what you feel is the purpose of your life?"

He furrows his eyebrows. "I need to work,"

"Work?"

"Yes, I need to go to work, I don't have time for this,"

"So you feel the purpose of your life is to work," I clarify for him.

"No," he says sardonically, "The purpose of my life is to be happy and make others happy,"

My eyes light up in wonder.

The man finishes, "Now if you'll excuse me I need to pay my rent,"

I fold my palms to him, smiling. "Thank you for your answer," And we part ways. I head back to the porch, reveling in the moment.

This parking attendant, who is a complete stranger to me, knows the purpose of his life. Just like that. The answer is clean and clear. His soul knows. I realize that we all know. The purpose of our lives is at the tip of each of our tongues. No need to force or debate or convince.

As the parking attendant put it so eloquently, "Be happy and make others happy."

Be happy and serve.

Something is amiss in this equation, though. I return to my spot on the porch to ponder. In my experience of this man, he was miserable. He knew and could speak the purpose of his life, and yet I did not experience him as aligned with his words.

I realize that to the degree that we're not aligned with our purpose, we cover it over with work. To the degree that we are not connected with the source of true happiness - God, Krishna - then we cover it over with work, work, work. Pleasure. Distractions.

I offer my respects to the man I met in the street today. He has taught me the simplicity of knowing the purpose of my life, and the lifelong adventure and challenge to align my knowing with my being.

And if I see this man again, the parking attendant, I think I shall go out and offer him a plate of prasadam.

(I feel moved to mention that this post is very much inspired by the Satvatove 3 course that I participated in this past weekend, which is facilitated by Dhira Govinda dasa (David Wolf) and Malini dasi (Marie Glasheen). I thank them for their guidance and compassion.)

The Bliss of Devotion: Kirtan

The Bliss of Devotion: Kirtan

"Follow your bliss." - Joseph Campbell

Last summer I was given the honor of being interviewed for the documentary Women of Bhakti, which will be premiering this summer.





(to watch it full screen: http://youtu.be/rhXgUjwnGr0)

Something magical happened for me this afternoon as I watched this trailer over and over. Bliss entered my heart! In the minute and forty-two seconds of this trailer, I felt as though my soul was resonating with a warm hum.

So for the next several posts, I feel inspired to share my bliss with you all. I'm not talking peace, enjoyment, or a thrill. I'm talking bliss - an experience that resonates all the way to the soul and throughout the body.

I'll begin with kirtan.

Since I was born, the way I have been given to connect with the Lord with love is through chanting His holy names. Last summer, amidst the rolling mountains of West Virginia in a spiritual community called New Vrindavan, I attended a magnificent celebration of the holy name called The 24 Hour Kirtan.

In the afternoon of the first day, a woman by the name of Acyuta dasi began to sing. I let myself get swept away in the music. I danced with other women in circles, and we played off each other in exquisite moves and expressions. Every note of the kirtan and every beat of the drum we followed with our bodies. Our smiles encompassed our entire face as we sang the holy name.

When Acyuta lifted her voice into an undulating improvisation, the drummers climbed in rhythm and we dancers began to spin and spin, our skirts rippling around us like blossoming flowers. The third or fourth time this crescendo of drums and voices and sheer energy rose in the kirtan, I was spinning and spinning and spinning. I raised my arms to the sky in surrender.

Euphoria washed over and around me in waves. Every bone in my body and every fiber in my being was singing and singing. I felt as though great shafts of light were playing through me and around me and the holy name was whirling around me in golden ribbons.

The words kept whirling through me: "There must be a God, and I must be a spirit soul. There is no way I could feel this kind of bliss without God. This is it. This is it. God must be real. And the holy name must be for real. This is my bliss. This is my bliss."

I am realizing that God is beyond vows and austerity, God transcends any particular path, God is beyond definition.

Loving God is about bliss.

So follow your bliss.

Humbled

About two weeks ago, I felt deeply provoked with anger, this white-hot rage.

I was in the computer lab at school. I opened my journal to write and write and write - I allowed myself to express the most hateful, spiteful words. I did not want to get up and leave the lab and actually I felt grateful to be surrounded by quiet. I felt no need to scream or to sob or run 5 miles. The anger rushed through me in tidal waves and I kept breathing and writing.

I read what I had written in my journal over and over and over. I felt this deep need to share this entry with someone, I needed it to be received by someone who would unequivocally accept my experience. So I transcribed the entry and sent it to my life coach and guide, Malini dasi.

A whole other experience descended upon me to read over the entry with the intention of sharing it. There in the computer lab, I was faced with the anger and hatred and pain in my heart, and that another human being would be witness to this.

Silent tears poured down my face.

In my experience of anger, there's a fall-out. And sure enough, the fall-out hit me as I picked up my things and headed out to my next class. I cried the whole way. I felt devastated. I felt smothered in that familiar experience - that I'm unlovable, I'm a monster, dangerous, unpredictable.

The next morning, the fall-out was still there. By God's grace, I was given the shelter of watching an Islamic song in praise of Allah. I wept and wept as I watched it over and over again, taking shelter in God's grace, His love and forgiveness. I surrendered my pain. I watched the song until the tears ceased to flow.

I felt clean. I feel clean.

From that fateful evening two weeks ago, I have felt so deeply humbled to experience my frailties. I am also realizing that lust, anger, greed, pride, illusion, envy and hate can never be transcended by being shoved away, pushed away, run away from.

I am finding that the only shelter is to embrace my frailties and allow Krishna to carry me.

My dear Lord, please carry me. In this vast ocean of pain, I am drowning and I can't swim. Please carry me. Only within Your arms do I find peace.

"But those who worship Me with devotion, meditating on My transcendental form - to them I carry what they lack and preserve what they have." - Bhagavad Gita, 9.22



link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhwdEtO5fJE

Adventure of the Soul

I write this in a mountain town of Mexico called Uruapan. As the Winter Bus Tour draws to a close, I reflect upon the journey that 28 of us have embarked upon throughout this magnificent country.

I am quieted.

I thought that when I boarded our bus on that now-faraway December night, I would be adventuring out into familiar pyramids, waterfalls, and beaches, then exploring far-flung villages to buy gifts and lots of earrings.And of course, throw in some kirtan for spiritual fun! As in previous years, I assumed a great outward explosion or curiosity and wonder.

Instead, the journey has turned inward. The wonders I thought I would be reeling in have lost their luster to me. It´s strange.

The true jewel has become the holy name. We sing kirtan every night for sometimes hours, and I teach sometimes hundreds of people to dance. I have witnessed miracles blossom before my very eyes - people weep in kirtan and smiles of the soul blossom on faces young and old. I have spoken with several people in my limited Spanish, and the words that come from their mouths are, "I am at peace. My heart is free! This is food for my soul."

I am humbled. This is my fourth Winter Bus Tour, but I realize that I´ve never dived into this country the way I have for the past several weeks. Some days I have almost felt disppointed to realize that Mexico is not about the pyramids or the waterfalls or beaches. And actually, I have not bought a single pair of earrings (oh my!).

Mexico is about the people; people who move my heart in a way no other people on earth have - people who have never heard of Krishna but as soon as they see His picture and chant His name, they instantly fall in love. Even the woman who collects highway tolls asked our bus driver today who Krishna is (since our bus is painted with the words Krishna Culture Festival Tour). We gave her a mantra card.

I am surrounded by people who simply love God and want to know Him and joyously chant His holy name.

Maybe because the holy name is so profound, I have found myself questioning the very foundations of Krishna Consciousness. The externals of my life seem to have been stripped away. I wonder at the purpose of service, and I question every direction in life I thought I was heading into. Some days I have retreated deep inside my heart, grasping and sometimes weeping for answers.

It´s a strange life I live - a day filled with questions while the night filled with answers. 

I have found that each morning that I wake up on my swaying bunk, I wonder what the day and evening shall bring. What adventure shall the holy name usher into hundreds of lives... and into my own?

A Conversation with God

A week or so ago, a friend of mine recommended that I read the book Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsch. Basically, it's a guy who sits down one night, picks up a pen, writes down a question, and God responds through the guy's pen.

You know, a conversation.

Yes, Neale Donald Walsch had a conversation with God. If you don't believe me, go read the book yourself. All I can relate is my own experience in reading it, and for the past two weeks I feel like I've been going through life in technicolor. It's like every moment is a jewel because it has been given to me by God.

And tonight was a jewel!

For one of my college classes, I have this assignment to attend various events with high school age kids. The catch is that it must be different from my own upbringing. Nervous that the assignment deadline is approaching, I finally did some Google searches today and found a youth Bible Study in Gainesville. I decided to go tonight - hey, carpe diem!

So at around 7pm, I walked through the doors of The Rock school/ministry. I felt a little nervous yet also happy to have an excuse to dive into another world. I struck up some conversations and immediately felt at home.

The evening began with worship - a rock band played a devotional song and everyone sang along. I was surrounded by teenagers with rapt expressions on their faces, eyes closed, their palms raised to the sky.

When the song ended, the pastor got up to announce the subject of tonight's Bible Study: hearing the voice of God.

I stood there, gaping in shock. Whaaat?

He told the story of how many years ago, he couldn't sleep and he felt that God was trying to speak to him, so he sat down and wrote and wrote - four or five pages, he just wrote everything he felt God was trying to tell him. He saved those pages, and many years later he still lives that timeless wisdom, and how what he wrote has come to pass.

Just like the Walsch guy, I thought.

We broke off into groups, and I followed the 11th and 12th graders upstairs. We arranged our chairs into a circle, and the young woman leading the Bible Study group asked the first question: "Describe a moment when you think God was trying to speak to you."

The entire Bible Study, I just sat there dumbfounded. I contributed at times, but mostly I was absorbing every single word said. Some teenagers were more outspoken than others - they spoke in such a real way, that God was a part of their everyday lives, and how they listen to their intuition. I felt so deeply humbled - although I am chronologically older, I experience these young people as having such a deeper connection with God in their hearts.

There was no sacrilege here to say that one can hear the voice of God. Frankly, it was conversed about in the most chill, down-to-earth way - even encouraged. "I listen to the voice of God. God is real, God is in my heart," one girl put it so simply.

Of course, not everyone felt such a connection, which brought us to our next question: Why is it sometimes difficult to hear God's voice?

"Movies, bad music, bad habits..." some teens volunteered. "Maybe we ignore the voice of God, so our channels get clogged up... If we are an instrument, we must be properly tuned to hear the Lord's voice."

When the leader of the group asked if anyone would like to add anything, I decided to speak up. "You know, I'm actually college age and I come from a different spiritual tradition, but I would like to express how grateful I feel to be here with all of you. This has been an important experience for me for the past two weeks or so, about listening to the voice of God. I feel that God has directed me to this very room to be here with all of you tonight. Every word that you've shared I've taken it to heart, you have all been my teachers. I realize how God transcends all boundaries. God is in my heart, He is your heart. I feel humbled. So thank you!"

A boy or two began to applaud, and then everyone applauded, smiling. I grinned in surprise and did a little bow where I was sitting. "Thank you!" I said again.

What an adventure life is when every moment, every breath is infused with God... including this one! The Lord in your heart has brought you to these very words.

So what are you waiting for? Go have a conversation with God!

The Eternal Question

The morning of Los Angeles Rathayatra, Mother Kosha Rupa approached me. "Bhakti, would you like to do an hour in the Question and Answer booth?"

I paused for a moment. LA Rathayatra is one of the largest Rathayatras in North America with outreach to thousands of people. The Question and Answer booth at this particular Rathayatra is an intense experience - crowds of people from Venice Beach flow in and out of the tent in waves and questions are asked that spark fires. In previous years, I've usually just passed by, even a little intimidated by the intensity.

But this Bus Tour is an adventure in surrender. So a smile blossomed on my face and I replied, "Yes, Mother Kosha Rupa, I would love to!"

So after the exhilarating parade down Venice Beach in the hot sun, I wove my way through the crazy crowds to the Q&A tent. I was introduced by the host, Akruranath Prabhu.

Then with a deep breath, I slowly sat down in the hot seat... and looked up to the crowd of people who faced me, their heads cocked with curiosity.

"So," I said. "Does anyone have a question?"

A man towards the back raised his hand. Sternness was written all over his face. He called out, "Why is God so great?"

I took a deep, deep breath. I felt the heat rise to my face. People kept gathering, stopping and crowding around the tent amidst the bustling Venice Beach sidewalks, curious to see what this young girl would say to such a question. I called out to my spiritual master and Prabhupad in the silence.

And then I spoke.

As I unraveled words that I didn't even know I had inside of me, the man's stern face slowly, slowly softened. At last I asked him, "Does that answer your question?"

His expression told me more than his words as he nodded, "Yes, yes it does."

That was just the warm-up question.

"Why is it implied in the Bhagavad Gita that women are less intelligent?"


"Is the Hare Krishna chant the only way to develop love of God?"


"Why have you fallen in love with Krishna?"

After one hour passed and I stepped aside for the next speaker, I felt a little woozy and unsteady on my feet, like I had just stepped off of an amusement park ride. Aaahh!! I had just been given license to dive into mysteries of the soul, existence, love, God, creation, and even the controversies of my faith. And at the times when I wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor, I called out to Srila Prabhupad and Radhanath Swami to please guide me. And the words that came out of my mouth were simply not my own.

I have attended countless Rathayatras over the years. And yet this LA Rathayatra, as I walked away from the tent amidst the bustling festival once again, I felt like I had just tumbled into a new world with fresh eyes.

As a friend of mine shared with me a couple days ago, "Life isn't so much about the answers we get but the questions we live in."

Krishna Consciousness is a question I want to live in forever. 

My Body is a Temple

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

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

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

Wear tilak every single day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Related Posts:

The Chosen and The Choosers: The Youth. The Future of the Movement. Descendants of the Demigods... 

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

The Marriage of Two Traditions

I had the honor of being present for the two wedding ceremonies of my friend, Gokul Vilasini. One honored the Sikh tradition of her family, and the other honored the Vedic tradition in Krishna Consciousness.

By the time the sun set, I was immersed in the intensity and solemnity of each tradition.

I present to you a photo essay of the bangle ceremony, Gokul's Sikh wedding, and a glimpse of the Vedic wedding.

 father

  mother

queen

chanting on her way to the Gurudwara

begging for blessings from Malati devi

Sikh Ceremony

Vedic Ceremony

"In the first round of the marriage ceremony, the Lord gives you His instructions for married life. Instead of performing rituals by routine, embrace the righteous life of Dharma, and do nothing that separates you from God. Meditate on God's name." 

- from the Anand-Karaj, the Sikh wedding ceremony

"Who has given this heart and to whom? Love has given unto love. Love is the giver, love is the receiver. Love has entered the ocean of love. I receive you through love. Oh love, this heart is yours." 

-  vow from Kathaka-Samhita, the Vedic wedding ceremony

Stumbling Upon the Sun

"If you think that this Krishna name is not very suitable, you can accept any name. That doesn't matter. Our proposition is you chant God's name. That is our proposal. Therefore it is universal. If you like, you can chant Jehovah or you can chant Allah, but we request you that you chant God's name." - Srila Prabhupada, 1968

***

Last week, my friend Shalagram and I decided to explore and admire the campus of the University of Florida under the stars in the lamplight. Then Shalagram pointed to the magnificent building that I pass every day.

"Have you ever been inside?" she asked.

"Actually, I have not," I said, taken aback. "That's the music building."

"You want to explore?"

"Why not?" I said.

So we crossed the street and entered through tall glass doors. Other people were also coming in, walking upstairs with a purpose. I felt a little intimidated. "What if someone demands to know why we're in here?" I muttered to my friend. "We're total sneaks!"

"Just act like we own the place," Shalagram replied. We grinned to each other and straightened our backs. We followed the stream of people up the stairs. We could hear the tuning of a guitar and the rustle of a huge crowd.

Timidly, Shalagram and I walked up to the door that had to lead to an auditorium. A young man walked past us on his way in and I flagged him down. "Excuse me, um, what's going on here?"

"Oh, one of our bands is playing tonight," he replied.

"Our bands?"

"Yeah, one of our bands here at UF... this is Crusade for Christ,"

"Aha, I see... so this is a... Christian thing?"

"Yes," he smiled and went on inside.

Shalagram and I looked to each other. I knew it flashed across both of our minds at the same time: destiny must have brought us here. "Let's do it!" we agreed, and we plunged into the dark auditorium. Everyone was standing up in the pews to face a band on stage. We walked up as far as we could and slipped in near the stage.

Wide-eyed, Shalagram and I looked around at the vaulted ceilings, the majestic architecture, and the hundreds of college students standing in the pews and in the balconies. Most had their arms raised, their eyes closed, and were singing along with the band.

We joined in on the tumultuous song, for the words were projected on a screen near the stage. Looking around, I was astounded to see such enraptured faces. Those were the same faces that I see in a heart-touching kirtan.

Then the song ended, and everyone took their seat. "Should we stay?" I whispered to my friend.

"Why not?" she whispered back. So we sat.

A young man got up on stage to give a sermon. And what an eloquent, incredible sermon it was. He was practical yet poetic - he wove in the scriptural analogy of running a race to our lives as dedicated disciples in the race to the Lord. I kept glancing over at Shalagram and we kept nodding to each other; nearly every point that he touched upon there was an equivalent in Vaishnava philosophy. Through his words, I felt inspired in a way that I have never felt before to chant intense and dedicated japa the very next morning.

The young man drew his sermon to a close, and then the band sang a closing song. Everyone rose to their feet and raised their arms. I raised my arms, too. And when everyone sang out "Whoah oh oh oh...." I murmured softly to myself, "Hare Krishna..."

My spiritual master often says that the sun goes by many names in all the different languages of the world, but it is still the same sun.

It's the same way with God - He goes by many names, but He is still God. And in that dark auditorium last week, I felt that I had stumbled upon the sun.


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