Seed of Devotion

Books and Temples

2025-10-25T09:31:00.000-07:00

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

From Fever to Peace

2025-07-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

"Where should I put this dish?" my friend Shyamala asked. She held a wet bowl in her hand.

I groaned. "Over there on the drying mat. Here, let me make some room." I stacked dishes and toddler cups and bowls in my arms and dashed around putting things away while my friends washed plates from our gathering that day. "You know what?" I said. "I've given up on this kitchen. I've given up on this place,"

"How come?" my friend Padma asked.

"Just look! Nowhere to put dishes. All this mold and mildew around the sink. Everything crammed into the cabinets. I can't cook without getting stressed. I just want to move into my own home," I declared. "But the housing market is so outrageous, and we just can't afford to move on. I feel like my whole life is on pause,"

Both my friends nodded with kind eyes. But I couldn't help feel that my explanations were excuses, hiding my embarrassment at such a cluttered and unkempt kitchen. In fact, if you were to open any of the closet doors or drawers in my apartment, you would probably raise your eyebrows at the chaos.

A few days later, I went on a japa meditation walk in the evening on my own, the breeze blowing, the sun setting beyond the trees, the stars just beginning to emerge. I looked over at the two-story house where my husband and I rented the ground floor, and a wave of warmth washed over me. I remembered the conversation with my friends, how I had declared that I had given up on this place, but really, I loved living here. Sure, the place needed some upgrades, but if I could, I would live here forever (on both floors). The legalities of ever owning it, however, were beyond complicated. And at the end of the day, we had just outgrown the space of our ground floor a long time ago. We needed a whole house.

Didn't we?

I turned my gaze to the sky and found my first star. I had been suffering from this escalating case of house fever for the past year, and had religiously wished on my first star to move into our dream home soon. More like, ASAP.

Tonight, though, I found myself walking a new prayer path: Please break this house fever and allow me to be at peace, even if that means staying where we are.

We soon officially found a real estate agent and I asked hard-hitting questions about all kind of possibilities. I kept getting slammed by the reality of the cost of owning a home in our current situation. I had spoken to many people over the years who were "house poor" - owning a beautiful home but drowning in the upkeep. I began to realize that this was my experience growing up - even as a kid and teenager, I experienced quite clearly the stress over the mortgage, the worry about the utility bills, the anxiety about repair costs.

One night after my son and husband had gone to bed and all the lights were out, I turned to the glowing screen of my phone and asked Google a nervous, desperate question: How much of my monthly income should I spend on a mortgage?

I'll never forget the answer that came back to me, so black and white: The 28% Rule. Do not spend more than 28% of your total income on rent/mortgage.

My house fever broke.

This is it. This lovely, seemingly cramped place is it, where we can live within our means and be happy and peaceful financially, so that we can focus on loving relationships and on God.

The next morning, I moved my desk into my room and immediately felt a click that yes - this place could work because I could work. I then targeted the infamous kitchen, the room I had never fully accepted or enjoyed since moving in five years ago. While the house fever went down, the physical chaos went up. Furniture and kitchen utensils and shoes and clothing and toys and paintbrushes... all flushed out into the light of day and analyzed - keep? sell? give away? recycle?

The weeks wore on, and organization exhaustion began to filter in. I wondered if we would ever reach the end, if we would ever reach peace.

One day, I was cooking lunch when I realized I could place a dish to dry with ease. In fact, my kitchen had been so thoroughly reorganized and redecorated that I found myself relishing being in the humble little space where I could feed my family with joy. (What's more, new countertops were to be installed soon!)

I then realized that I felt at ease in my entire home. We now had plenty of space because we had made space.

I had begun to realize that I would find frustrating shortcomings no matter where I lived, even if we found some million dollar home on Zillow.

So while I still long for a house home, the longing has become a quiet murmur, like a cat's purr.

I often remember that seemingly long-ago evening where I wished upon my first star, and I experience a swelling of gratitude that Krishna answered my prayer. He has granted me peace - right here, right now.

Now my main longing has turned to welcoming deities of Radha and Krishna into our family. Since we have cleansed and organized the temple of our home, maybe Krishna will come join us. He makes every home perfect.

A Tale of Two Singers

2024-09-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

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 Purpose of My Body and Soul

2024-05-02T14:39:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

But still, I wanted that unique connection.

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

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

every

last

thing.

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

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

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

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

Shore of Peace

2024-04-18T14:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

But how will I find him in the darkness?

Just keep your eyes open!

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

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

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

Do it now, Bhakti!

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

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

Or I could wake up.

Wake up from this dream.

Do it now, Bhakti.

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

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

I had chosen reality.

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

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

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

But it's all drama.

Because none of them were real.

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

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

athato brahma jijnasa

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

The Moon is Always Full

2023-09-07T09:13:00.003-07:00

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

2023-01-27T17:00:00.008-08:00

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

2022-06-21T10:22:00.005-07:00

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

2022-05-18T18:27:00.082-07:00

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

Into the Depths

2021-04-29T11:31:00.020-07:00

About two minutes.

Thanks to YouTube analytics, I now know that that's the maximum for how long a few viewers have watched one of my YouTube videos for my 100 Day Project, a Bhagavad-gita exploration project called sincerely, bhakti.

This is just what it means to generate online content - engagement can sometimes be very, very low.

So where does this leave me with my Gita project?

Well... to be honest, I feel a twinge of discouragement.

But if I just take a look at the reality here, these videos are not snappy or catchy. I'm not commenting on a current event or delving into controversy. No editing, no alternate shots, no text or graphics or just anything.

Just me, my cell phone, and one angle for 5-10 minutes, discussing... scripture.

So exciting, right?

Sarcasm aside, why I even decided to DO this project is because I have found that scripture actually is exciting. It's like freediving into the depths of a deep, dark ocean.

"Profound" means "deep" in Latin, and when I say "dive deep into the Gita" I do not mean this in a cliche way. Yesterday's video and the experience of absorbing myself in scripture and the words of great souls is still reverberating in my heart and a kind of quiet has settled over me. I truly felt as though I was diving into the depths of spiritual reflection, where the water becomes a dark blue and everything becomes very quiet.

Lord Krishna's and Prabhupad's words became deep like an ocean.

I swam there, suspended, observing how small I was, how humbled to be immersed in truth and wisdom and divinity.

So while these videos shall never be catchy or trendy, I hope that they are presentable. I would hope that if my spiritual master or Srila Prabhupad were to watch one of these videos, they would nod their heads and bless me to continue to keep diving, keep diving.

And if you or anyone else decides to join me for even two minutes, then I am grateful to share eternal truth and wisdom with another soul.

(email subscribers may need to click on this link to view video: https://youtu.be/sfeb5Lv3RBo)

God is Great

2020-11-05T09:10:00.004-08:00

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

2019-02-04T17:38:00.003-08:00

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

The Folded-Palms Thingy

2018-12-13T20:00:00.003-08:00

*pseudonym

The stampede of students flew down the stairs - the end of the school day had arrived. "Hey, Mrs. Caruso," Charles*, an 8th grade student, called out to me with a grin, breezing past, "you have 180 youtube subscribers!"

"Wait, what? I do?" I replied, shocked. "How do you know??"

"We were all just checking it out in Mr. O'Connor's* class,"

"You mean, right now?"

"Yeah. We saw you singing. And dancing. You were playing that piano thingy..."

My mouth was agape. "That's called a harmonium,"

"Yeah, it was cool. A Simple Post? That's the name of the video? Pretty cool,"

"That was like, six years ago! My YouTube channel is mainly a teaching tool for singing...!"

"I know, I know. And what was that thing that all these people were doing - " Charles motioned his hands up into a kind of prayer position, " - you all came in and bowed..."

Bewildered, I said, "Uh, I don't know!"

The student swept on by. I glanced around in shock to other 8th grade students who had overheard us and they just nodded, grinning too. They also bounded away, carried away in the exultation of the end of the school day. Obviously they were in on this and had seen all the hullabaloo on Mrs. Caruso's YouTube channel.

I walked back up to my classroom, dazed.

Naturally, I looked up my YouTube channel. I looked at it through the eyes of my eighth graders. Mind you, I work at a Catholic school and I'm the Religion teacher to boot. So these kids are looking at a teacher who has all of these exotic videos of India, putting on some strange draped garment, wearing red dots on her head, performing some intricate and foreign kind of dance, being proposed to in front of an exotic priest in orange cloth, singing some kind of ancient language, and on and on.

Must be weird.

I then came home and kept watching and watching, no longer seeing through my students' eyes, but seeing through MY eyes, the eyes of a Bhakti lata who has been removed from her culture and active spirituality for a few years now. In all of these videos, I'm seeing a common thread - even the ones where I'm just demonstrating the structure of a Hare Krishna melody:

Devotion.

I'm peering into another world, another person's life.

And it's beautiful.

I keep remembering when my student Charles said that he had watched A Simple Post, which I had posted 6 years ago and was just me singing Hare Krishna in my cluttered living room. He had expressed genuine appreciation for that video. It wasn't some fancy edited video, I wasn't doing anything that dramatic. But his eyes had softened when he said, "Pretty cool,"

Some 8th grade boy thought that was pretty cool? Why? No seriously, why? Not just because of the cool harmonium thingy. Not even the foreign language I was singing in.

There must have been something else that was cool.

The holy name.

Devotion.

A hunger for something beyond this world. A hunger for a love to satisfy the soul.

In this quiet space before I jump into the whirlwind of work tomorrow, I feel this tender spiraling of my heart, this yearning to... to... be a devotee. To express my longing for God with all of my heart.

Oh Krishna. Please draw me home to You.

And if you so desire, may I sing and play the piano-thingy and may I approach you with the folded-palms thingy.

(If you are an email subscriber, you may click on the links below the videos to view)

A Simple Post: https://youtu.be/bj6lwzjFbhQ

Me, At the Core

2018-06-14T18:02:00.003-07:00

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

2018-01-17T18:47:00.000-08:00

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.

My First Love

2017-08-06T19:46:00.001-07:00

When I was 11, I sketched a self portrait with the thought bubble emanating from my forehead:

Should I be a scientist?

Or a singer?

I find it fascinating that I felt inspired at that age to pursue a musical career when the extent of my singing was to burst into song alone in the woods (a la Snow White), and of course, the shower.

As for scientist, um, yeah. No idea where that one came from.

Over the years, that thought bubble has spiraled from my mind again and again:

A teacher?

A photographer?

An environmental ecologist?

A small business owner?

A mother?

A writer?

Recently I've been inspired by Marie Kondo's book The Life-changing Magic of Tidying Up. The title of the book is no joke. I have systematically gone through categories of my life, from clothes, to books, to closets of storage, and more. Bags and bags, boxes and boxes: donated, gifted, discarded.

The criteria for what to keep:

Does this item spark joy?

In the process of clearing away extraneous stuff that has been piling up for years, I am rediscovering my first spark of joy, my first love:

Writing.

Funny how my first official contemplation of what I should be when I grow up was through the medium of paper and pen. Since I was a little girl I have sought solace, connection, joy, and community through the written word.

For so long now I have neglected to share my creative heart through writing.

Maybe we all have parts of our true selves that we neglect because of lack of time, money, committment, and encouragement. Today, for the kajillionth time, "write blog post" was on my To Do list. As the day wore on, I began to sense with growing dread that once again, it would be put off to some nebulous day in the future, some writing utopia.

Suddenly, I decided to honor my word to myself.

I would write a post.

In the process of writing this post my completed drafts got deleted TWICE. So this is literally the third time I'm writing this. It's taking waaaaaaaaaay longer than expected.

That said, here I am.

Here's my heart.

Touchdown!

2017-05-31T14:09:00.001-07:00

My husband has an amazing capacity to receive love.

He's a wide receiver.

No, literally, he's a wide receiver. As in, one of these:

Now, I had no idea what a wide receiver was before I got married to one. In fact, I attempted to understand American football many times and attended my fair share of Superbowl parties and STILL was clueless (you Europeans aren't the only ones!).

But football is my husband's favorite sport, and with patience he unraveled this sport for me. Similar to chess, each player in football has his own position, and the strategy is a complicated feat of skill and psychology involving multiple coaches for each position.

In football, the quarterback throws to the wide receiver. This fascinates me that ever since he was a boy, Ghanashyam has played wide receiver. You see, I experience my husband as loved. He's loved by family and friends and mentors and his patients and bosses...! If footballs were love, he'd be pelted with those brown pointy things on a daily basis. But more importantly than being loved, my husband receives love. He actually catches the ball of love and doesn't let it bounce off his heart. Then he goes for the touchdown.

The thing is, he doesn't just catch any ol' ball hurtling down the field. There's strategy. Discussion. Boundaries. Rules. Intuition. Love is about cooperation and then being open and ready to receive with a trusting heart.

I've seen Ghanashyam play football. He is focused. Present. Mostly, though, he's grinning. Even when he misses a pass, he smiles and tries again. And again.

What I'm coming to realize is that if life was a giant football game, we would ALL be surrounded by brown pointy balls flying our way all day, every day. We would be throwing balls, hoping others would catch our love. And hopefully, we would be receiving the love that our heart desires, opening our hands to catch that love and go for the touchdown.

By cooperation with one another to give and receive love, ultimately we experience the touchdown of God's love.

Soul Passion

2017-03-17T13:04:00.002-07:00

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.

An Old Friend

2017-01-03T13:34:00.001-08:00

"The bus is only two stops away, honey," Ghanashyam said, glancing at his phone. "I've got to go."

"Yes, yes, coming!" I poured hot soup into my husband's thermos and twisted on a cap with shaking hands. I slid the thermos into his lunchbox and handed it over.

"Thank you!" he said, then dashed away out the door. I took a deep sigh and began to clean up the kitchen. I turned around to face another counter and my heart dropped. The inner cap of Ghanashyam's thermos. This would mean his lunch would be cold and worse, the soup would spill everywhere. I hadn't woken up at 5:45am to make fresh soup for this!

I grabbed the cap and raced to the door. "Ghanashyam!" I called out into the hallway. Silence. I prayed that he hadn't left on the elevator yet. Frantic, I took several steps into the hallway.

The door behind me closed with a thump that echoed off the walls.

I spun around. I stared at the closed door, frozen.

Oh no.

I was in my pajamas and a robe, barefoot, holding a thermos cap. It was 6 o'clock in the morning in winter, the world still dark and asleep.

If Ghanashyam hasn't caught his bus yet, he could give me his key! I thought. Without many other options, I raced down the hallway, the elevator, and through the cavernous front lobby, my robes flying about me.

I dashed right out into the streets.

Barefoot, in pajamas, in the cold, dark morning.

Man, I must've looked like a lunatic!

I sprinted to the end of the block and glanced at the bus stop across the street. No Ghanashyam. Oh dear. So I padded back to our building. I had closed the front apartment building door carefully so that I could still get back inside. Once inside though, I realized I had looked at the bus stop for buses going in the wrong direction! So I RAN BACK OUTSIDE - barefoot, in pajamas, to search the OTHER, correct bus stop.

No go.

This time, though, I hadn't shut the front apartment building door so carefully and it had shut (and locked) behind me.

Great.

Now I was locked OUTSIDE in the cold, dark morning, barefoot, in my pajamas and robe. With a thermos cap!

So I waited and waited, but it wasn't too long before a lady came out the door on her way to work and I got inside.

So what to do?

The building superintendent. Maybe he had a spare key to our apartment. But it was so early, surely he was sleeping. I had no phone to call him, I didn't know which apartment he lived in. Barely anyone was out and about at this hour, and I did not want to feel like a crazy woman, tapping on my neighbors' shoulders begging for our super's phone number.

So I went up to our hallway and thought, hm, I could ask Eddie for help, our friendly neighbor in the apartment directly above ours. But it was just too early for EVERYBODY.

So what to do??

Wait.

I slid to the floor outside my door, the tile cold against my seat and feet. I put the thermos cap up on the doorknob to keep it off the floor and out of my hands. I took a deep breath and, keeping count on my fingers, I began to chant, "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna..."

It was a strange feeling, to be stripped of absolutely everything except the clothes on my back (and a thermos cap). I had nothing and no one to turn to in the world, everyone was out of reach. And yet what could never be taken away from me was the holy name. The holy name was there for me to keep me company. The holy name didn't care whether I was a billionaire in a mansion or some young woman with only the clothes on her back.

The holy name was simply my friend, unconditionally.

In the dark and quiet morning in our hallway, I chanted for about an hour and a half. I would regularly check the sky to see if the sun had come up yet. At last, I figured it was early but not too extreme, so I walked upstairs and rang Eddie's doorbell. Sure enough it took two times, as he was scrambling to wake up and answer the door. He called and texted the super to no avail, then he suggested going through the fire escape as long as my window was open.

Eddie climbed down to my place, opened my window, climbed through and opened my front door. When he did so, the thermos cap came tumbling into the hallway from its perch on the doorknob.

So there you go.

That was my morning.

When I settled once again on the warm couch in my cozy apartment, I reflected how in the chaos of the morning, I had experienced a glimpse of magic. I had connected with an old and beautiful friend who was right there in my heart and would be there until the ultimate moment when all trappings of this material world would be stripped away - death. He would be there even if I couldn't physically bring His name to my lips.

My dear Krishna, O Holy Name, thank you for being there, thank you for being my friend. Unconditionally.

Tree of Trust

2016-12-16T15:23:00.000-08:00

The leaves were a brilliant green in the park when I made my way to St. Brigid's School for an internship interview. I was early, so I wound my way over to the majestic Prabhupad Tree, whose proud trunk and towering plume of branches and leaves extended far into the sky.

In my heart I wrestled uneasily with the prospect that this would be an unpaid internship. New York City is such a tough city to live. So I struck a silent bargain with the Lord in my heart. I pleaded with Him to please allow me to work at St. Brigid School and get paid for it. If He arranged for this, then I would come see Radha Murlidhara and the Prabhupad Tree every day.

Fair and square. Right?

I was interviewed. The principal and vice principal were impressed with my experience and my character. Then the principal dropped the bomb. "Yes, we'd love to have you. And just for clarification, this would be volunteer,"

My heart dropped but I kept my cool demeanor. "Yes, I understand. I'm still interested," Where were those words coming from?? I had known all along I would probably not get paid. But I had had a thread of hope.

I walked out of St. Brigid with my head spinning, feeling sick. Tears unexpectedly poured down my face. Through blurred vision I made my way to the Prabhupad Tree. Fear overwhelmed my heart.

I approached the great tree and sunk onto a park bench and wept. Working at St. Brigid felt so right, this was my dream school and opportunity. Yet without getting paid how would it be possible in this crazy expensive city?

I looked up at the tree and calm settled over my heart.

Everything will be taken care of. Just trust.

I rose from the bench and walked over to the tree and gave him a long hug. His bark pressed against my hands and my forehead, his roots spreading out below me.

On the walk back to the subway, I realized just how much I wanted this opportunity. I would talk about it with my now-husband Ghanashyam, but I resolved in my heart that no matter what the financial circumstances, I would come see the Lord and His devotee every day.

Ghanashyam encouraged me, and we found a way to make it work.

Over the past four months, I woke up glad to go to work at St. Brigid. Every day I would come say hello to Radha Murlidhara and the Prabhupad Tree, taking moments to reflect on grace.

Now my internship is drawing to a close. Today I approached the tree in the park, his plumage long gone, his bare majestic branches reaching up into the pearly sky. I gave him a long hug. For four months I've been giving him a hug, and today I felt this affection well in my heart.

My friend.

Thank you.

Although I do not know my next destination, my friend has taught me that everything will be taken care of. Just trust.

My friend seems only to speak the words of the great soul who once stood beneath his branches by the name of Srila Prabhupad. That great soul was an unknown, penniless man who deeply believed that all would be taken care of. Srila Prabhupad just trusted, and he changed the world.

My dear Srila Prabhupad, may I trust the way you trust, and may my life's work bring me ever closer to your feet and the embrace of the devotees.

Goose Fable

2016-12-12T15:33:00.002-08:00

A Goose Fable
a story in honor of my spiritual teacher, Radhanath Swami

Once upon a time there was a young gosling. She would waddle around on the ground with her fellow geese, and there were even elder geese who waddled everywhere they needed to go, from pond, to forest, to field. But every so often, this little gosling would gaze up into the clear blue sky and see high, high above beautiful V’s of birds, stretching out into the sky like fluttering ribbons.

“What kind of birds are those?” she asked one day to an elder goose.

“Geese,” he replied gruffly.

“Geese?!” she exclaimed. “Like me? Like us?”

“Do not worry,” he said. “You have everything you need here on the ground. There’s no need to gallivant off into the sky like that. Those geese are eccentric.”

But the more the little gosling watched those birds fly by, the desire blossomed in her heart that she also wanted to fly. She felt that there was more to life than waddling around on the ground. After all, she had wings.

She began to feel the determination that surely the goose at the very tip of the V formation in the sky could teach her how to fly. So one day she stepped out into the wilderness to search for this V-leader.

At last, she came upon a great enclave of geese and was lead to a little clearing by the river, with some rushes laid out on the ground. When the little gosling saw the great V-leader goose, her heart trembled but she spoke out bravely, “May I be your student? Would you teach me how to fly? I know that my destiny must be beyond the ground, but I’ve only ever been told that everything I need is on the ground. I want to fly free, experience something beyond my little pond and forest.”

The V-leader goose observed her carefully. His golden-brown eyes seemed to twinkle and see straight through to her heart. “You were meant to fly, little one. I will teach you,” he intoned.

“Truly?”

“Yes!” He unfurled his great white and dark brown wings. “Let us begin!” Even though the great V-leader goose was responsible for an entire gaggle of geese, he would still take time out of his busy day to teach her the principles of flight and language of sacred honking. “Honk when you are in distress so that other geese may hear you and come for you. Also, We honk when we fly together, to keep our spirits up and unite our hearts,”

Finally, the day came when, with the goose leader and the entire gaggle of geese there as witness, the little gosling leaped off of a cliff. She fumbled and tumbled through the air. She honked and suddenly her wing caught on a warm updraft of air. She honked again and her wings righted and she rose high, high, high, up past where the great V-leader goose and the entire gaggle watched upon the cliff’s edge. Everyone began to honk wildly. She rose even higher and the little gosling felt as though she was being held in the arms of someone much, much greater than herself, that the longing she had felt all her life to be more than a goose in a gaggle was fulfilled.

Suddenly, the warm wind dropped away, and the little gosling found herself tumbling through the air. Terrified, she somehow kept her wits about her and remembered the teachings how to land. She shakily maneuvered back to where the great V-leader and all the other geese were waiting.

“How was it?” the V-leader asked gently.

“Amazing,” she said, wide-eyed.

“And?” he prodded.

“Very scary,”

“Hm. Now is the time to know that there is an even greater destiny than learning how to fly. You see, we geese are big birds. And we fly very, very far. Actually, to fly as far as we fly is impossible according to the laws of physics. “That is why we fly together in V’s. When a goose beats his wings, he sends an updraft of air behind him, which can then be ridden upon by the goose behind. Then the draft behind the wing of that goose helps the person behind him, and on and on until the end of the V. We can increase our range by many, many times over when we stay together.”

The little gosling was quiet, her mind awakening. “But,” she said quietly, “What about the goose in the front? There’s no wind for him to ride?”

“All will be revealed in time,” he replied mysteriously.

The little gosling began to learn from the other geese in the gaggle how to fly in V-formation. It was hard work, to figure out how to cooperate with others’ rhythms, and to work together. Soon, though, her wings became strong and she gained many flying friends.

One day she noticed that the great V-leader would often retire after long training journeys to his little clearing by the river. “Is our great V-leader okay?” she asked a fellow goosemate.

“He is very tired. To be at the tip of the V is so hard. He needs to create an updraft for all of us geese in formation to fly upon. He is trying to train more and more geese to fly at the tip of the V, but we can be slow learners. Many of us want to fly as far back in the V as possible. Being the leader may look glorious but it is the hardest work of all. And for our V-leader, he truly does his best to show us and train us and encourage us. So he continues on, year after year.”

A tear slid down the gosling’s beak and dripped off of the tip. “This sounds so terrible. Why would he do such a thing if it is so hard on him? Why?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

So the gosling waddled over to the edge of the V-leader’s little clearing. He was resting in his spot, honking melodiously. The lines around his beak were pronounced, but his golden brown eyes were bright.

“Great goose leader,” the gosling said timidly. “I have a question for you,”

“Anything for you, little one,” he said and beckoned her closer with a great sweep of his wings.

“How come you do it? How come you work so hard - and you are advancing in age – to lead the V when it is such hard work?”

The V-leader smiled. “I will share with you a secret. There is a greater fulfillment than flying, greater fulfillment than the fun and companionship of riding with other geese, greater fulfillment even than reaching our distant destination. The greatest fulfillment is to strain every muscle in your wings to create an updraft for the goose behind you until you do not know how you will beat your wing one more time. The greatest fulfillment is to honk the sacred song so that the others behind you are encouraged to keep flying, to honk until your voice is gone and you cannot honk anymore.”

“But why, great leader? Why?”

“Love. That’s all there is to it. I love each and every one of you. And, I am also glad that you are no longer stuck waddling around on the ground.” He laughed then, his wings rising and falling with mirth. Then his voice became soft, “In truth, I am not a leader at all. I am only your servant.” The V-leader fell quiet and turned to gaze off into the sky towards the setting sun.

“In truth,” he continued, “a V-leader cannot lead on his or her own. It’s impossible. The V-leader rides upon the wind of grace of our great Lord, who speaks to the hearts of all and gives us the strength to continue on.”

The V-leader became grave and he beckoned the little gosling a little closer. “Do you want to know an even greater secret?” She nodded, eyes wide. “We are all riding the wind of grace of our great Lord but most of us do not know it or feel it. But He is there, holding all of us in His arms.”

The little gosling remembered her first flight, and the feeling she had had of being held by someone so much greater than herself.

“The most beautiful secret of all is that you are learning to fly so that one day, when the time is right, the spirits of great geese will come for you, and then you may join their formation and fly up into the sky to never return to the ground. You shall be supported by the great souls and held in the arms of our great Lord forever.”

The little gosling’s beak dropped open a bit in wonder.

“For now, though,” the V-leader said kindly, “Just try to beat your wings a little more nicely for the goose behind you.”

Radhanath Swami, thank you for showing me a destiny beyond waddling around on the ground of this material world forever, never using my God-given wings to fly. Thank you for teaching me that my greatest destiny is not only to fly, but to call upon the strength of our great Lord to encourage and support those near to me with love and compassion. I pray that one day I may serve in the way you serve.

Krishna Kid

2016-06-08T09:51:00.001-07:00

The rhythm of the mridanga drum is in my bones. The harmonium is an extension of my hand. The Hare Krishna mantra runs through my veins.

In the morning I swim in a bikini. In the evening I dance in a sari. I pack for an international trip in two days, I stay with people I've never met before.

I have deep shallow friends all over the world. Within hours we've connected, like two plugs in the same wall socket, getting a jolt of electricity to be together, and then we've disconnected. Oftentimes, we're disconnected for months and years and years. But we always remember what it felt like to be jolted by the same electricity of connection. Maybe it was Krishna, or Prabhupad, or crazy good prasadam, or an electric kirtan.

We never forget.

I've traveled around the world and never paid for a hotel. I've lived on different continents with different communities with different cultures and friends and services. I have found found Home. I'm still searching for Home. Terminal wanderlust.

I want a competitive salary, to wear clothes from Ann Taylor, be LEGIT. I want to belong in the material world. I do. I want accolades, recognition, credibility. I want degrees. I do.

I want to live in the spiritual world. I don't want to GO there. I want joy, good food, music and dance all in praise of God. I want deep connection and love. I want to serve. I want to twirl in kirtan with a sea of ladies until our skirts all fan open like flowers. I want to throw my arms in the air and call out God's name among an ocean of voices. I don't want to go to the spiritual world.

I want to live there.

Bikinis and saris, degrees and initiation vows, traveling the world and finding home, belting out Beyonce and calling out to God. Sometimes it's all a traffic jam in my heart. Sometimes I'm lost, really lost.

When I look out and see other Krishna kids and Krishna devotees lost - sometimes painfully lost, sometimes joyfully lost - in the traffic jam of our desires and our lives, I don't feel so lost.

Family.

When you're leaving this world, I'll sing Krishna's name for you. You will be in my mind, in the temple of my heart. I may be across the world, I may have never met you, but I'll be there for you.

When I am leaving this world, I know you'll be there for me. You will sing for me, you will pray for me, I will be in the temple of your heart. Even though you're across the world, even though you may have never met me, you'll be there for me.

With you,

I am found.

Vrindavan Magic, Part 1 of 4

2016-06-07T21:23:00.000-07:00

The sun rose on the eastern horizon. My taxi wound onward and onward through tiny villages of thatched huts and hand-painted advertisements towards the holy land of Vrindavan.

Five years.

Five years had spun by since I had last come to Vrindavan. My heart ached with prayers to see past the pollution and noise and Westernization to experience the essence of Vrindavan. The real Vrindavan. The sacred Vrindavan.

We edged closer and closer to Vrindavan and I folded my palms to sing and to pray. Tears came to my eyes. I wanted the real Vrindavan and yet I struggled with the possibility of what I was going to see. I would be in there for only three days, conducting both business and pilgrimage. Three days to get it all done, three days to get to the essence.

My second morning, I woke up scribbling shopping lists in my mind. By the time I walked over to the temple of Krishna Balaram for morning services, my mind was SWIMMING with stuff to get done in Loi Bazaar. I was eager to sit down and do a full inventory of all cash outflows on this trip, and my mind raced with plans.

While in the temple, I thought, "I know I have only chanted two rounds of japa meditation, but let me just spend an hour or two on this accounting first. Then my mind will be more at ease and I'll be able to be more focused in japa."

When I came back to my room, I felt: No.

Krishna is first. Krishna is priority. I must put Him first.

I decided to chant a minimum of eight rounds, sitting down, in my room, before doing anything else.

I realized that of course my mind is going to wander. I came back, came back to the sound. Every time I came back, there was this feeling of "whuuuumph" like my mind had been flying around and suddenly I was pulled down to land, whuuuuumph, back on the holy name. I could hear that whuuuuumph.

Shopping lists dissolved. My burning desire for that lovely scarf faded.

I had thought that I had had important business to accomplish and to chant japa was a secondary chore. In those moments of listening to the sound of the holy name, I realized that chanting attentive japa actually empowers me to accomplish ten times what I thought I could ever accomplish.

Thus eight rounds became ten, ten became twelve.

In this simple effort of mine to chant the holy name and SHOW my sincerity, I believe that Krishna reciprocated tenfold and He gave me darshan - or divine vision - of Sri Vrindavan Dham.

Let Me Love the Way You Love (Part 2 of 4)

2016-06-06T10:09:00.001-07:00

After chanting, my mind was razor sharp and I blazed through my accounting.

When I made my final calculation, I put down my pen and picked up my japa bag and headed down to visit the rooms of Srila Prabhupad.

Whenever Srila Prabhupad came to Vrindavan in his later years, he would live in these rooms, and ultimately he left the world in these rooms. Just by walking through the doorway, my mind became as quiet and warm as when I was chanting the holy name.

Hung on the wall was a picture of Srila Prabhupad that sent chills racing through my body.

Srila Prabhupad's body is emaciated, he is lying on his deathbed, which was in this very room, and a disciple holds a dictaphone to his mouth. He is giving commentary on the tenth canto of the Srimad Bhagavatam.

In those final moments of his life, he was serving. Giving truth. Giving love.

Let me love the way you love, Srila Prabhupada.

I sat down to chant in front of his murti, or sacred statue, which was seated behind his original desk. In my short time there, I saw an elderly woman from Russia and a monk from India and a young couple from South America come to bow before him. I realized that his kind of love reached to every corner of the world. I want to love the way you love, Srila Prabhupad.

Tingly Prayers (Part 3 of 4)

2016-06-05T10:10:00.000-07:00

When I left Prabhupad's rooms, I ran into a girl I've known for several years now, her name is Indulekha. I got to connect in with the friends she was traveling with, as well as her mother.

We all ended up having lunch together at the MVT restaurant. At lunch, I was told that tomorrow was the celebration of Holi - the festival of throwing colors - and it would be impossible to do shopping in Loi Bazaar. It would be dangerous. Scary. They told stories that sent shivers down my spine.

No way was I stepping out tomorrow.

It dawned on me that I needed to squeeze in not only the rest of my business but all of my pilgrimage goals into one evening. That evening. Oh boy.

In the late afternoon, we set out for Loi Bazaar, the four of us a motley crew - France, Russia, and the US all rolled into one spicy mixture. We whirled our way through various stores, on a quest to discover an elusive item. At last we were triumphant at the new Ganga Prasad shop near Radha Shyamasundar temple. We high-fived each other!

When I was paying for the bill, I took out my business binder to account for this expense. The pen that I fished out of my bag was this gold pen that I had brought to India to write elegant thank you notes and such. I wrote the mundane financial equation out in the glittering gold ink and Veni Madhava commented, "Hm, a gold pen,"

"Oh yes," I smiled a little bashfully. I put it back in my bag and fished out a blue pen.

Since we were so close to Radha Damodar Mandir, I declared how much I wanted to go there, and the other ladies were happy to go too. We entered the busy temple, which was blasting with music from the musicians who had set up in the courtyard. Holi was getting into full swing. Radha Damodar were holding little metal Holi syringes, and the other Radha Krishna deities were holding plastic ones! Temple-goers were splashed in bright pink and green and yellow and danced in circles.

The four of us headed into Srila Prabhupad's humble rooms. His murti was there, also seated behind a desk, studiously bent over with his hand poised holding a pen. We commenced to chant japa. Despite the deafening music, suddenly the room felt quiet, like we were in a cocoon.

When the music paused, I said, "Hey, you guys, lets do a little kirtan while they've stopped their music,"

So we all started singing together, and immediately the music started blasting away again, so we just sang louder. We sang at the top of our lungs!! I suddenly realized that we wouldn't have been singing at the top of our lungs with such abandon, grinning from ear to ear, our hearts pounding, if that loud music hadn't been there. And so inside my heart I offered my gratitude to the musicians, for they had provoked our wild enthusiasm and love for Prabhupad with our chant of "Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada!!!"

When we had triumphantly concluded our brief kirtan, something curious happened. Veni Madhava said to me, "Why don't you give Prabhupad your gold pen, and take the one he's holding?"

I was astonished, surprised with this idea.

"Really? But I've already written with the pen I have, is that okay?"

"Sure," she said.

So with a big smile, I crept forward and replaced Prabhupad's simple ballpoint pen with my gold pen.

The significance of this hit me after we left the temple, and for hours afterward. Prabhupad had somehow guided me so that I would be given his pen, and in his rooms at Radha Damodar where he wrote such powerful scripture in his meditation to save the fallen souls. I am praying that I may follow in his footsteps and write as a service to Krishna.

When my friends left the room, I lingered to offer prayers for a soulful wedding and marriage. When I went to join them, they weren't waiting at the temple entrance. I realized that maybe they had gone to Prabhupad's kitchen. So I headed back inside the temple. My friends weren't there; nevertheless I fell to my knees to offer obeisance.

Propped up against the wall is a picture of Srila Prabhupad quietly eating lunch, taken before he had traveled to the Western world. He is gazing out at the samadhi of Rupa Goswami and his expression conveys his meditation on how to fulfill the Goswami's wishes to share Krishna with the world. So I folded my palms and my prayer came out as a mantra, "The holy name, vaishnava culture, the holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture...." I was tingling all over.