Waves of Devotion

The black snake was still sitting on the last step of the ghāṭa. It hadn’t moved one inch since I initially saw it when descending the stairs for my bath. A little fearful, I stopped suddenly and walked fifty meters to a safer spot. I didn’t have my glasses, so I had to squint intently to see why the snake was seemingly motionless. Oh, it was just a ripped black tire! I had an epiphany.

All problems are perceptual and not actual. I felt threatened by the black snake, but what was my problem? Was it what was actually there or perceptual — what I thought was there?

The best example of a perceptual problem is death. When we lose what we are attached to, we suffer. At death we seemingly lose our very existence. We are, however, eternal. Therefore, death itself is only the illusion of non-existence and, in that sense, not an actual problem.

Every school of spirituality and self-improvement is based on overcoming perceptual or illusory problems. For example, the main focus of the yogic process is to conquer distress and invoke contentment by purifying one’s perception, which is distorted by the static of thoughts born of ego.

Yoga corrects one’s vision by bringing the mind to sattva, which means the true nature of being. The original or corrected nature of the mind, which is like a mirror or lens, is one that is not distorted or dirty. The yogic technique for bringing the mirror of the mind to its functional or true state is called meditation. By concentrating on one thought, the other distorted thoughts are quelled. The lens of the mind thus gradually moves to the platform of sattva, a higher level of perception and contentment, which is the main symptom of sattva.

Similarly, in its own way, modern psychology seeks to help solve one’s mental problems by giving one a higher perspective of them. Traumas, phobias, and anxieties, for example, are distortions of one’s thinking and perception. An expert in psychology may help one to identify irrational patterns of thought that skew one’s perception and cause distress. He or she then helps one to change those patterns of thought hoping to bring one to a higher level of perception and contentment.

The purpose of the law of karma is to elevate our vision by putting us in situations that help us to better understand the world and ourselves. In that way, all schools of thought serve a singular purpose: to enlighten us or to elevate our perception to make us content or happy.

I was inspired to write this Monday Morning Greetings on the relationship between perception and our mental state by reflecting on the ability of the internet to promote fake news, create false narratives, and to influence people to live mostly in a polarized world of hate. When it is used in this way, and it seems to increasingly serve this purpose, it is certainly not in itself pramāṇa, a valid means to help us understand and live in reality. It is surely not the world where the saintly reside. Śrīla Prabhupāda therefore condemned such media strongly:

“To read ordinary literature and books or newspapers [internet][1] is compared to the pleasure place of crows. The crows, they are very much attached to the rejected refuse, garbage.” (Lecture on Bhag. 2.3.17, Los Angeles, July 12, 1969)

[1] There was no internet when this was written, but now the internet serves as the modern source of news in every way.

Rāgānugā-bhakti is about doing things from the heart. Management is mostly about organization and policies. Can they be reconciled?

People who have been on my retreats notice that I am a stickler for the details of managing it.  During my Puri retreat, one younger devotee noticed how intensely I was making sure that the prasādam was served according to traditional Vaiṣṇava standards and joked that they were surprised that a Vrajavāsī was so much into vaidhī-bhakti.[1] Although the comment was innocent, and they were, in fact, appreciating what I was doing, I could see that they had some misunderstanding about what rāgānugā-bhakti, or spontaneous devotional service, is. I quickly replied in the form of questions to help them reconcile the concepts of management and spontaneous devotion.

When there is good management, you don’t see the management. When there is bad management, all you see is the management. Which is more conducive to rāgānugā-bhakti?

When Krishna arrives home in the evening “as required according the scheduled round of each pastime”[2] is His adherence to time an imposition on His līlā or pastimes, or an asset to it?

After arriving home in the evening from the cow pasture, Krishna’s mother bathes, dresses, and decorates Him so that He may join the other men and boys in the community for the scheduled milking of the cows. Was her attention to detail and time connected to her motherly devotion, or her desire to advance in religiosity by doing her duty?

Krishna’s day is described in books like Govinda-līlāmrita as aṣṭa-kālīya-līlā, the eight-fold daily pastimes, meaning that His daily activities are scheduled practically down to the minute. If Krishna’s activities are scheduled so rigidly by His līlā-śakti, or pastime potency, how can we say that keeping things orderly is antithetical to spontaneous devotion?

Śrīla Raghunātha dāsa Gosvāmī is recognized as the prayojana-ācārya, the authority on prema-bhakti. His practices, like chanting and paying hundreds of obeisances to the Vaiṣṇavas, were so fixed that they are described as like the lines on a stone. Considering whom Raghunātha dāsa Gosvāmī was, how we can divorce his mood of rigid discipline from the realm of the highest devotion?

Kirtan is described as “when the bhava in the heart is expressed through the discipline of music”.[3]  Is the effort to make a beautiful kirtan within the parameters of classical musical discipline enhancing or obstructing spontaneous devotion?

At the Ratha Yatra festival in Puri, Śrī Caitanya meticulously organized the kirtan into four parties with six chanters in each party: one lead singer and five to accompany him. He then assigned two expert mṛdaṅga players to each party. In addition, he made sure the dancing was appropriate by assigning one lead dancer to each party. Śrī Caitanya came to give rāgānugā-bhakti. Was His strict oversight of the kirtan party a result of His spontaneous devotion or something else?

Śrī Radha learned sixty-four arts in order to please Krishna. Among them were carpentry (takṣaṇa), engineering (vastu-vidyā), mechanics (yantra-mātṛkā), and enforcing discipline (vaināyikī vidyā). Why then can’t we manage on the platform of spontaneous devotion for the pleasure of Krishna?

I think it is obvious by the questions I raised that one on the level of spontaneous devotion is not limited in what one does for Krishna’s service, including regulation and organization. It is thus not the activity that makes something spontaneous devotion, but the inspiration or impetus for doing it. Can rāgānugā-bhakti be reconciled with organization and management? As long as it’s born out of the deepest intimate love for Śrī Krishna, then why not?

[1] Vaidhī-bhakti is devotion inspired by faith in the potency of following the rules or prescriptions of devotion. Rāgānugā-bhakti, or devotion following the eternal residents of Vṛndāvana, is devotion inspired by one’s intimate relationship with Krishna.

[2] Bhāg. 10.13.23

[3] This is a definition of kirtan from the Sikh tradition from an article by Satyahari Singh published in the Journal of Vaiṣṇava Studies.

I have been here in Vṛndāvana for forty-three years, but in terms of attaining pure devotion the amount of time in a holy place isn’t the main prerequisite. What really matters is one’s firm internal commitment to surrender to Krishna. After coming to the path of bhakti that could take lifetimes, or it could happen in a moment.

A leader in Krishna consciousness who is allured by distinction and admiration may not attain the platform of pure devotion after decades of service, while a beginner who humbly feels impelled to take full shelter of guru and Krishna, perhaps after a lifetime of suffering, may get the full force of bhakti at once. It all depends on when one pulls up the anchor of selfish attachment and surrenders fully to guru and Krishna. A well-known tale illustrates this point.

The wedding party traveled all night by boat to arrive at their destination. To their dismay, upon awakening they were in exactly the same spot as when they began. Upset, they brought their complaint to the boatman, who initially defended himself vigorously. After all, he had rowed all night. He, however, soon became contrite when a person in the wedding party pointed out that he had forgotten to pull up the anchor.

The story illustrates my humbling realization. My many years staying in Vṛndāvana is just not a badge of spiritual attainment to be worn by itself. One must fully pull up the chain of selfish desire and come to that point of unconditional surrender, something that can be done at once providing one is inspired with the fortitude and conviction to do so.

I have been helping to host a group of pilgrims from the USA this past week, people relatively new to the path of bhakti. Many attend my evening class. There is some raw sincerity here. I have practically never seen people immediately dive so deeply with full heart into the holy name. The thought then crossed my mind: They have a chance to commit to bhakti immediately in a way that has taken me many years to attain, or more honestly, I have still yet to attain. Why not?

I am not minimizing the determination of those who stay committed to the path of bhakti for many years. There is something so glorious about that. I am just pointing out a fact — that the fruit of such determination and grace is the point of full surrender, which opens the door to the genuine sentiments of one’s eternal relationship with Krishna. That point generally takes years or lifetimes of practice to attain, or it is something that can also be achieved at once by someone who has the intelligence and strength to do so.

“Nonetheless, the living entities are constantly being bewildered by this very same illusory energy. In his conditioned state, the living entity discovers many forms of word jugglery to get apparent liberation from the clutches of Māyā, but if he sincerely surrenders unto Kṛṣṇa by simply once saying ‘My dear Lord Kṛṣṇa, from this day I am Yours,’ he at once gets out of the clutches of the material energy.” (Teachings of Lord Caitanya, ch. 11)

A stone in a glass of water will not absorb anything even if resting there for thousand years. A piece of cotton will be drenched in a minute. After so many years the same choice remains, “Stone or cotton?” How humbling!

I just don’t do well traveling. I am so disoriented from the day-long travel from Puri that the travail of traveling is the only realization I have to write about. Let’s see what I can say.

Śrīla Prabhupāda circled the globe twelve times in ten years, beginning after the age of seventy, yet wherever he arrived, he automatically clicked into his daily schedule without losing a beat. To me that’s unimaginable.

I am not Śrīla Prabhupāda. I become unsettled and inefficient after even a short jaunt. By my nature, travel is especially tough. Although, in general, modern travel is burdensome in ways for everyone. I remember the cautions of an Āyurvedic doctor:

“Anytime you travel faster than a bullock cart it blows out the fire of digestion. If you change your environment it takes seventy-two hours to adjust physiologically to the new air, water, food, and so on. Quick movement exacerbates the mode of passion, which is not good for the mind.”

A spiritual mentor offered an insight:

“People used to walk days or weeks to arrive in Vṛndāvana. Their minds would arrive in Vṛndāvana days or weeks before their bodies. Today we fly to Vṛndāvana. Our minds arrive days after our bodies.”

Whenever I go to the holy dhāma, the first thing I try to do is to bathe in a holy river or lake. It is the quickest way to help my mind arrive in the place where my body rests. Another way is to circumambulate Vṛndāvana proper. Haven’t had a chance for that either. I’ll go tomorrow.

My service of speaking and writing requires a clear mind. Efficient memory is very much a product of the mode of goodness. If my mind is not calm and clear it is hard to keep a fluid train of thought, or to quickly access the memory for an important reference to enhance my point.

The passion of travel has stolen that, at least for a few days. It’s Thursday; I am just beginning this week’s post. What happened? It has become near impossible to write.

I have to be fair. Traveling can also have a substantial upside. When we stay in one place, we tend to build our environment according to our desires and material identity. That’s natural. We need a level of satisfaction and peace to even pursue our dharma or spiritual life, but it can also fortify the conception that one is the doer, attach one to the temporary, and create the illusion that family and home are the ultimate reality. When mature, those who seek to loosen those conceptions and who have appropriately satisfied their responsibilities traditionally retire from material life. They wander in the forest bereft of their material protective agents to learn that we are not the doer and that God is actually our maintainer and protector.

Of course, like many strictures of the past, one must seek the principle they represent and intelligently apply it to their present situation. However, there is something to be said about leaving one’s comforts and travelling for a spiritual purpose where one is forced to face situations that challenge one’s control and foster faith and dependence on God. All true, but my service now is to stay in Vṛndāvana. I need to be here in the proper mind-set.

I just finished parikramā of Vṛndāvana. It was just a two-hour jaunt. I even wore shoes and socks for the first time on the now-paved road, which traditionally is navigated barefoot out of respect. I can’t believe it. How did I get a huge blister despite thick socks and footwear? Is this Vṛndāvana monk, who has lived here for over forty-three years, getting too soft? Anyway, I have finally entered the dhāma, but only after suffering the import of the maxim:

“Traveling makes a man old.”[1]

[1] Cāṇakya Paṇḍita