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.  

Valentine Prayer

"For the living, death is certain; for the dead, birth is certain." - Bhagavad Gita

Radhanath Swami wants his students to learn how to serve someone who is dying. So he asked Barbara Slaine and Henry Weiss to please allow those who serve at The Bhakti Center to participate in their "death doula" training program. Ghanashyam signed up.

For the past three days, Ghanashyam has shared with me stories and points of the training that have brought me to tears, all showing the power and beauty of death.

Today, Ghanashyam called me. "Bhakti," he said, "Today we were given an assignment,"

"Oh really?"

"Yes, we were put into groups and were given the assignment to choose someone in our lives whom we love and to design a way to facilitate their passing from this world. It's called an 'advance directive.' So... I chose you,"

"Really? How so?"

"Well, how we're planning our wedding, I'm discovering so much of what you love. So I said that I would put lots of beautiful draping cloth from the ceiling in warm colors. The bedspread would be in that Jaipur block print that you love.

"Then, when people enter the room they would all be required to approach deities of Radha and Krishna and to bow down and offer respects, no matter who they were. We've been told that when people know that when something pleases the person who is dying, everyone is happy to do what he or she wants. So religion doesn't matter. I was thinking how you love deities and would want everyone to offer their respects as the first thing that they do when they come into the room,"

Tears filled my eyes. I pictured Ragunath's deities, Radha Madan Mohan, in that room.

"Then I was thinking how you love to write, this is a part of your legacy. Maybe some of your writings of your choosing from your blog could be compiled and given to guests, and maybe on beautiful stationery,"

Tears flowed.

"Then I was thinking how when everyone comes out of the room they would all take prasad, and what's more they would serve each other. You love to take prasad and for everyone to serve each other. You would want that.

"And then in the room, there could be a point where we all surround you on the bed and share some words of appreciation, or a special story in honor of you. That's your style - you love these community type of events where everyone must do something, there's no slipping away, for everyone to bond.

"It was beautiful, because when I shared all of these ideas with the whole group, everyone was fascinated. People kept exclaiming how beautiful this all seemed, how special I must be, and 'wow, you really love your fiancee. I feel like I know her so well, I wish I could be there!'"

"Well, hopefully not yet," and we both laughed.

"The people in my group were fascinated by how you love saris," Ghanashyam continued, "and then one of them even suggested that maybe you wear your favorite sari,"

Immediately I thought of my initiation sari - the ivory one with the gold border.

"And there could be a corner where kirtan and bhajans are going on, so that people could go and sing the holy name,"

Tears flowed down my face and I had the most curious experience of being so deeply loved. Ghanashyam knows me on the soul level. He loves me on the soul level.

"Ghanashyam," I said, "This is the most beautiful Valentine's Day gift I could have ever received. Everything you said... this is exactly how I would want to leave this world. With your words and description, I feel unafraid of death, that I will be surrounded by love and my next destination is auspicious.

"Ghanashyam, I want to also meditate on how to facilitate your leaving this world,"

"Yes, it is a beautiful meditation," he said.

Several hours have passed and I realize that if I was to leave the world in such a loving way, the fear of being a nobody has faded away. The burning desire to be world famous or rich or accomplished has vanished. I don't need to be remembered for eons and put down in the annals of history.

All I want is to be surrounded by loved ones and the holy name, to leave a legacy of love. And soon those people who remembered me will pass from this world and no one will actually remember me or mark my space in history.

And that is okay.

Because my soul has moved onward in the journey of love. That is all that matters.

Whichever one of us leaves first, I only hope that I may journey with Ghanashyam towards Krishna even beyond this lifetime. That is my Valentine prayer.

Open Heart

Tonight the weight of the world settled on my shoulders.

I walked out of yoga class heavy, burdened. The class was lovely, but whenever I take a yoga class the physical moves seem to open up the metaphysical heart.

So when my heart opened, the burden settled in. 

I felt overwhelmed by certain painful conditioning while growing up - the state of my fragmented family, how my insecurities and dysfunction affect my professional, personal, and spiritual life. Fear of perpetuating a painful legacy for myself and my family. 

I looked for music to soothe my heart. I came across a deeply Christian song, about how Lord Jesus Christ shed blood to save our souls. The song soared and enveloped me with softness and power. 

I drove down to the shore and watched the sun set upon the ocean in a blaze of fire. I felt as though the burden was lifting from my heart because the Lord was carrying that burden for me. What love. What amazing love. 

We all carry our burdens, we all carry our "crosses." How amazing that our Lord is so loving, so kind, so gentle, that when we simply turn to Him with open hands and a soft heart, He is so willing to carry our burdens. He heals our hearts, makes us whole, allows the impossible to become possible. 

I do not have the answer. I do not believe my burden is gone forever. But I had an experience this evening that the load can be made lighter, and my heart will be made stronger. May I forever turn to my beloved Lord for grace and healing. 

And next time I go to yoga class and my heart opens, may a river of joy come flooding out. 

I'm Not Alone

I had wanted to get married since I was a young girl. But I reeeeally wanted to get married for about five years straight.

I prayed.

I waited.

I asked for advice.

I read books. Lots of 'em.

I wrote letters and lists and petitions to Krishna.

I cried. A lot. There were months and years of silence, of endless silence.

When I was 26, I was living in Mayapur, India, facing much pain and longing in my heart to simply be married and move on in life. I prayed and took solace in Radha Madhava.

I stayed on to teach middle school English, which would take me well into the thick of an insane Mayapur summer. When all the pilgrims filtered away from the festivals and Mayapur had settled into a sleepy and kind of gently abandoned town, my heart began to unfurl. I lived in this big old building on the edge of Mayapur, on the second floor. I would teach during the (insanely hot) day, then come home. I lived alone. I ate alone. I wrote alone. Everything,

alone.

Day after day, I began to experience - I'm not alone.

I have me.

I have Krishna.

I love this company. Love. If I was to spend the rest of my life with anyone, I am a pretty darn lovely person, and Krishna is too.

In my journals, the topic of marriage was conspicuous by its absence. All my life I had filled the pages of my journal with stories and realizations and prayers of love and marriage.

And while I had always written about these particular topics as well, I noticed that ALL I wrote about seemed to be the beauty of the sunset over Mayapur fields, the naughtiness of one of my students, the glory of God and how He loves me. I experienced trust blossom in my heart.

I was so content being on my own, I was happy to continue this way for much longer, to explore my career, to develop friendships, cultivate my service...

And of course, "When you're not looking for it, Krishna gives it to you,"

I had this sense that Krishna was sending me someone soon, simply because I was content on my own. It's a funny thing. As soon as we become whole and satisfied on our own, Krishna sends us someone.

Yup, let's see, precisely ten days after I left Mayapur, I met my future husband, who is also a whole and beautiful devotee of Krishna.

One + One = Three.

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.

Lower the Mask

- Shel Silverstein

I used to lose my voice a lot. I would lose it especially when I wanted to express myself the most. I have been on nine traveling youth bus tours and on eight of those tours inevitably I would lose my voice. At times my throat hurt to even hold a conversation, I had to whisper. Something I loved to do - participate in and also be asked to lead kirtan - quickly became out of the question.

Today I have been meditating on a quality that I have been meditating on for almost ten years: vulnerability. Vulnerability means being stronger than I ever thought humanly possible. Vulnerability means opening the heart - again, and again, and again - because without living a vulnerable life I am living a shell of a life.

Vulnerability means honesty. It means sharing the heart with clarity, for all of its messy and beautiful glory.

Vulnerability means owning my own messy, beautiful glory. No one else is responsible for the state of my heart.

Vulnerability means opening up the heart, knowing it could be smashed. Or worse, it could be ignored.

Vulnerability is the only way to live because it means getting in touch with the truest part of my soul and living that. It's easy to hide behind a mask of "fineness" because if people criticize or hurt the mask, hey, it's just the mask.

But if people hurt or criticize me - with no mask - then that's, well, ME.

Living life without a mask is damn scary.

And it is the only way to be seen for the real me. No other way of living will satisfy the spirit. How satisfying could it be to be loved for my mask, no matter how beautiful that mask is? Some movie stars go through this quite literally - plastic surgery.

I don't have enough money for plastic surgery or expensive wardrobes or fancy cars. So I put up my own plastic surgery of shutting down and an ingenuine smile. The cost is not money. The cost is living a life half-lived.

When I open my heart to live from a vulnerable place, a truly deep place, then love goes deep into my heart. To be hated and loved for who I am is infinitely more satisfying than to be hated and loved for who I charade to be.

I have lost my voice many times, although less and less over the years. Nevertheless, the journey is everyday, the process of lowering the mask and letting myself speak from the heart. Sing from the heart.

This life ain't no masquerade ball. Lower the masks, lower the masks! and let our eyes open and our voices fly free.

Beloved

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

Art and Words Duet: Day 7

Beloved

For years upon years

I searched for The One

I cried many tears

and on the years spun

I looked inside

and looked out there

was tempted to hide

but honed my prayer

When I discovered my Lord

He filled the hole in my heart

I let down my guard

for my heart had become whole 

I became calm and content

spending long days alone

I watched the sun rise and set

Peace covering my soul

Now I didn't even want to get married

For my life was going fine

But of course that was when the Lord carried

me to His beloved

and mine. 

Courage to Change

[The Serentiy Series is based upon this prayer: God grant me the courage to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference.] 

Ghanashyam and I bought tickets back in March to visit Alachua, Florida for three whole weeks. Alachua is the community I call home, and I wanted for us to spend quality time there. I reached out to one friend for a place to stay, but as the weeks went by and there was no response, I began to worry. I reached out to one other friend, but that was a no go.

Time began to spin by and my anxiety picked up speed. I began to fret. How could I have lived in Alachua for seven years and feel so hesitant to reach out to anyone there? Was I a stranger? How could no one be willing to help? This was horrible, heartbreaking. 

By the time June came around, I was considering canceling the trip and I had cried numerous times. 

What woe!! 

One night, I was reading the book Learned Optimism by Martin Seligman. I decided to consciously change my thought from: I've always been alone in this world, no one loves me, why would Radhe Shyam do this to me -

to

This is a temporary setback because DUDE I've barely reached out to anyone. Radhe Shyam love me. God loves me. 

Bam. Peace settled in my heart. The next morning I wrote five emails to various friends and mentors who live Alachua, asking for a place for both Ghanashyam and I to stay. I asked with affection, vulnerability, and detachment. 

Within three days almost everyone had responded, most saying that they were busy, but one mentor did say with much kindness that we could stay in his home. 

Now Ghanashyam and I are visiting Alachua and our situation is perfect for our service and for experiencing the overwhelming love of this community. 

Martin Seligman? Thank you, man. God spoke through you to me to help me experience the truth and make a change not only in the situation but within my heart. 

On Love

For the past 8 months or so, I have been in a relationship with a wonderful man by the name of Ghanashyam. He has met my parents and sister, and I've met his parents, siblings, and extended family in the US. The other day, he told me that his grandparents wanted to meet me.

So we hopped on a train to go meet them in New Jersey.

Ghanashyam's grandparents have been married for 69 years.

Sixty-nine years.

I don't think I have ever met anyone who has been married for 69 years. 

Sometimes when people say that "we'll be married forever" it almost seems like too long. I can't wrap my brain around forever.

But I can wrap my brain around 69 years because I witnessed it the other day. I witnessed two people at the age of 91 who have love, respect, and affection for each other.

I asked Ghanashyam's grandma the secret for such a long, healthy marriage. She replied, "Patience. Lots of patience." I wonder what this means because it can mean so many things. I'll stay in this question. 

I asked Ghanashyam's grandpa the secret for such a long, healthy marriage. He replied, "We like each other."

I found that profound. These two people simply like each other. They like each other's company, each other's sense of humor, each other's rhythms. Loving someone can be a little fickle, but liking someone seems to be a steady truth. 

I walked away from our lovely afternoon quite pensive. One day the grandfather or grandmother will pass away. It's hard to imagine being married for 69 years, but it's harder to imagine being married for 69 years and then one day that person is gone. So many journeys, so many lessons of love - so much so that the souls seemed to have intertwined. 

Then bam, gone. 

I feel a cavernous hole in my chest just to think about it. 

I resolve that along with cultivating my relationship with my partner in life I want to cultivate my relationship with God, with Krishna. Allow the three of us to intertwine. We'll be patient with each other. We'll like each other. We'll love each other. 

Then whether my partner and I are married for 69 years or 69 hours before death comes for one or both of us, there is no cavernous hole of sorrow but an overflowing cup of joy. I pray that we may be carried beyond these material bodies by the Lord to a place where love never ends. 

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. 

An Evolution

Tonight I've been meditating how I've been keeping Seed of Devotion going for over seven years. With the advent of Facebook and the mechanism to "like" a post, writing for Seed of Devotion has evolved a lot over the years. The reality is that I find myself often thinking in terms of how a post will be liked, how its value will increase or decrease according to how much feedback I receive. So many times it has happened wherein I bare my soul in a post and only receive a couple random likes or hits.

I want to be conscious and considerate of an audience, and yet I crave to just let go, let go, let go.

In fact, when I have spoken with other blog stalwarts over the years who have decided to stop writing for their blogs, the number one reason I have found for bloggers to stop blogging is that... well... it just gets too personal. It gets hard to keep sharing the heart.

I now find myself in that space. I find myself struggling to keep my heart open, to keep sharing vulnerably. And that is simply where I find myself today, where I have found myself for quite some time now. I am committed to keep writing for the rest of this year, and then we shall see where the writing road goes. 

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Ernest Hemingway

Consolation

"While we are impressed with your qualifications, after careful consideration we have decided not to advance your application in the hiring process at this time."

Two nights ago I read these words and heaved a sigh. My shoulders slumped. I had put so much effort into my application for this teacher apprenticeship program - cover letters, resumes, even an interview. It had been my ideal program. I had been applying to many other programs as well, but with this one especially I had dared let my spirits rise. Now...

Nothing.

Back to square one.

I've been searching for the right place to teach and learn for a full year now. But my career progress has kept slamming into a brick wall.  At this point, nothing is consoling me.

Today I went to a basketball tournament to watch a friend's 11-year-old son play. For the first game, each player seemed to make each shot as if by magic. They worked together seamlessly. We all cheered when they won.

The second game, both teams played with ferocity. But our team lagged; towards the second half, they were 24 points behind. Catching up seemed impossible.

The second half, our team exploded with momentum. 20 points behind. 14 points behind. 10. 7. The other team's score was at a standstill. I couldn't help but feel this crazy hope rise in my chest.

Would we make it?

59 seconds left.

36.

20.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

Our team lost.

Families cheered for our team, telling them they had done well. I overheard the coach tell some parents, "How they played in that second half was better than a win,"

I agreed. What a spectacular game. If you lost, so what, learn and move on, right? What matters is the effort. 

I was leaving the gymnasium when I saw one of the young boys from our team - his mother was helping him put on his coat. The boy's face looked grim.

"Hey," I called out, "You played an amazing game out there, great job,"

The boy barely looked at me, his face turning even darker.

"That's what I told him," his mother said, "but he won't listen,"

I insisted, "How you played in that second half was just amazing,"

The boy turned away from me, shrugging on his coat.

I walked away, pensive. The expression on that boy's face resonated deeply with me. As the hours go on, I can't help but feel such a kinship with that boy. A relief that someone else in this world can feel the way I do, a human being who feels disheartened, discouraged, and plain old sad.

When I've done my best, and my best isn't enough, maybe for awhile it's okay to hang my head.

I'm sure the little boy would agree, too.

(image courtesy of calaverasenterprise.com)

Clearing My Throat

"To withhold is to perish." - Khalil Gibran

A friend of mine recently told me that I often clear my throat. In fact, over the years I have had the constant experience of losing my voice. As one of the seven chakras is located in the throat - the capacity to communicate and share the self - I find it no surprise that I have had a rocky relationship with my voice.

Communicating my self is one of my greatest joys and one of my greatest struggles.

This morning I was chanting japa and watched the sun slant through the window in a brighter and brighter patch. I thought of this blog, Seed of Devotion, and came across that all-too-familiar sensation of blankness. Whiteness. Void.

I want to communicate something, anything, and although so much beauty has been transpiring in my life, I'm at a loss. More and more, I'm at a loss. I'm frustrated and angry that I refrain from communicating even on Facebook or an email thread. I'm afraid of no one getting me, no one listening, no one caring.

I realized this morning that not trying is painful, but to try and fail is even more painful.

But to withhold is to perish. This morning I felt like I was going to explode.

I am praying to my dear gurudeva and my beloved Lord that somehow or other They may allow me to communicate my heart.

My Story

Last night in a circle of people, Tukuram Prabhu asked me, "So what's your story?"

I drew a blank. "My story? Uh, what do you mean?"

"Your story. Whatever that means to you."

My mind flew with images of which tack I could take. Being born and raised a Hare Krishna? No. My path to finding a guru? No. My professional career path? Nah. How I have come to the Bhakti Center here in New York City?

None of them seemed to tell MY story completely.

The conversation within the group of people kept pivoting and shifting, and Tukuram must have asked me 3 or 4 times, "What's your story?"

I was vague. I changed the topic. I kept asking him to clarify.

Finally he said, "Okay, look, I'm going to tell your story."

"Whoah, whoah, I didn't even say anything!"

"But how you've spoken already is enough,"

"But, but - "

"Hey, I might be wrong. But hear me out, it's like getting your fortune told."

I felt dubious. "Ooookay..."

The whole circle of people went utterly quiet and listened to what Tukuram told me what my story was. He described me as affable and easy to get along with, but actually a very private person who doesn't open up much. "When I ask people this question, most people are ready to simply tell me a story, but you? You kept avoiding the question,"

Okay then.

You wanna know my story?

I'll tell you my story of love.

As a child, I always felt this loneliness, this hole in my heart. God was my friend - familiar but not too serious. I had a difficult time growing up with parents that I experienced as not very present in my life. When I was 13, I developed a chronic illness and began to search for a spiritual path that I could own. I began the journey of finding a spiritual master and of healing my relationship with my parents. I have had several romantic experiences that have challenged me to go to the core of my heart to be a woman of honor and integrity. Most of all, I have learned to embrace who I am, just as I am, and to let myself laugh when I trip and fall.

As time goes on, I am finding that nothing of this world fills the hole in my heart. Nothing, no one. Only God, only Krishna, only His devotees.

That's my story.

Fill the Hole

Yesterday I was walking to Whole Foods Market to drink a kombucha and write in my journal. I felt tired, aimless. My chest felt cold and empty, like a hearth where the fire has gone out.

"Bhakti, hey, nice to see you!"

I looked up and saw Hema, a beautiful young lady I got to be acquainted with at the Bhakti Center.

I smiled. "Oh, Hema! Nice to see you, too," I replied.

"Hey, are you tired? Sad?"

I laughed sardonically. "Not tired. More... aimless."

"Yes, that's it, that's what I see on your face. Well, I'm headed over to Atma's evening program over at 26 2nd Avenue, you want to come with me?"

I hesitated. "What's the program?"

"I wasn't even going to go, but a friend of mine asked if I was coming. She said there was a special speaker tonight. There'll be kirtan,"

"And prasadam?"

"Yes, and prasadam,"

I grinned, "Okay, let's go,"

We set off to the small storefront that was the place where the International Society for Krishna Consciousness all began. I felt like a newbie off the street, coming to this whole Krishna world for the first time.

We walked into the packed room and wove our way to the front. Romapada Swami was the special guest, but sigh, just our luck he had just finished speaking. Kirtan soon began. I felt skeptical, a little dry. Amazing how I felt like a newcomer.

Different singers came forward to sing, and with each kirtan I paid more and more attention. Then, the last kirtan was lead by a spunky lady and yoga teacher here in the city. Somehow her raw kirtan just pierced right to the emptiness in my heart. I sang in response and the words kept passing like signs through my mind, "Fill the hole, fill the hole,"

I felt the hole get filled. Actually. For those couple minutes with closed eyes singing the holy name, I felt the hole get filled.

After the kirtan, I helped serve prasadam and I interacted so lovingly with other seekers of God.

Within another hour or so, though, my heart emptied out again.

This is my life lately. Emptiness. Then the hole fills with the next kirtan. Or conscious bite of prasadam. Or the moment I tuck the deity form of the Lord into bed. Or a soul-moving conversation with a devotee. Each time this happens, I just pause in wonder and awe. Then, soon after, my heart empties.

Crazy how in New York City I feel this raw, raw need for God as a person in my life.

[I just saw this picture and it seems to capture the essence of the title of this post.]

Searching, Searching

When I was in India and I got homesick for America, I would have a very specific daydream:

The library.

Wander into a beautiful library with vast ceilings, shelves filled with books and books, immerse myself in the mystical mood of knowledge and inquiry. And of course, AC. Then, I would settle into a nook and read lovely children's picture books. 

So yesterday I caught the F train to the New York Library on Fifth Avenue, one of the most famous and magnificent libraries in the world.

(photo by flickr.com)

I wandered vast marble halls and passed giant oak doors with gilt metal handles. I made my way to the children's section and read lovely children's picture books. And there was AC!

I stayed for awhile.

Nice. Yeah. I wandered back out onto Fifth Avenue, the buildings stretching to the sky, rivers of people moving along the sidewalks. I walked into Zara to admire clothes. Within minutes, I walked out. I picked a direction and eventually came to a bookstore, but even there I felt the fever of everyone around me to buy, buy, buy.

I felt the energy pulsate in the air of everyone searching for something, searching, searching. 

Including me. 

At last, a little dizzy, I took the F train back to the Bhakti Center.

Recently, I received brahmin initiation, which allows me the responsibility and privilege to worship the Lord in His deity form on the altar. That evening, I was scheduled to receive training to put Radha Murlidhar to rest.

When I came back from my city sojourns, I showered and put on a sari. I entered the templeroom and a whoosh of quiet fell over me. Soon, my teacher greeted me with a smile and training began. We prepared a tray of cookies, fruit, and milk in shining silver bowls, and I offered a short altar service of incense and flowers. Several people came to sing evening lullabies for the Lord.

The cold and hard edges of the entire day seemed to soften.

We closed the curtains. I moved to place the small brass deities of Radha Murlidhar into Their wooden bed. I moved Them with such tenderness, like a mother tucking her children into bed. I stepped back to look at Them sleeping and I sighed.

How many times must I lose Krishna to realize that He is to be found within my own heart?

(photo by Alex Vaishnava)