Trash

It takes me a while to warm up.

No matter how jolly and jumpy the event, it generally takes me a good long time to thaw out, especially in a warm and blissful atmosphere. My initial reaction to any positive vibe is negative.

The first time I peeked through the cracks in the double doors of a Hare Krishna temple, I saw leaping people in the middle of a blazing, thundering ruckus. As i stared fearfully at the aerial stunts being performed by the whooping, hollering throng within, i very nearly got right the hell back on the bus.

A couple of days ago, we celebrated Lord Nityananda’s appearance day here in Alachua.

In the morning, I couldn’t have been more glued to the floor. I watched as others jumped and shouted with fervent enthusiasm, but I would have none of it. I hoped, for their sake, that the leaders of the kirtan didn’t attempt to pull me into their choreography. They would have had better luck trying to move a sofa. I strove for zero eye contact.

I’m picky when it comes to kirtan, too. I don’t dance to just any Tom, Dick or Hari’s singing. if you change the melody, I get cranky. If you modulate (change the key of the current melody), I get cranky. If you veer afield of the hare krishna mantra, I get cranky. Result being, I will retreat deeper and deeper into my already stone-like stupor, my face feeling more and more like it belongs on the face of Mt. Rushmore.

Yet when we went back for the evening segment of the day’s festivities, somehow I was able to loosen up. Everything changed. To my surprise and weary amusement, my wife had pledged us for cleanup duty, so obligation, rather than desire, is what dragged me back.

The evening kirtan had just begun when we arrived, and the kirtan leader was an old friend, a great singer who had grown up, in fact just a few miles from my own worship-able birthplace of Syracuse (Siberacuse, Sore Excuse) New York.

At first, I stayed in back, so I could see everybody but nobody could see me. Then I decided I wanted to see what was going on in the kirtan so I climbed up on a folding chair. The temple room was packed. I began to feel deep gratitude to be free of my earlier crust. Misery makes for good writing material, but it’s not a fun way to live.

Gradually the crowd thinned to the point where I took an opportunity to move closer to the action–the kirtan leader and the circle of drummers near the altar. I find that physical proximity to a kirtan epicenter helps me to thaw out and have a good time.

It’s probably a volume thing–rock promoters know exactly what size of speakers are required to drive rhythms through the bone marrow of writhing concertgoers– there’s something to be said about being able to feel the music in your body.

I started dancing, and I never dance. or, rarely. It takes a very special occasion.

I love to dance–I used to go like a wild man for hours during my teenage love affair with the music of the Romantics, Ramones, Elvis Costello era–but these days it takes just the right kirtan leader to allow me to relax at all.

On this particular Lord Nityananda evening, I even jumped in with the line dance–when everyone forms a pair of parallel lines which meets and parts in rhythm to the kirtan–and wound up dancing long after the crowds had excused themselves to wait in line for the feast, catch up on the transcendental gossip, refill their plates twice, and wash their hands.

My wife and I stayed late into the chilly evening and took out the trash, pausing only to pilfer any leftover lugloos. Lugloos you just don’t throw away.

I know for a fact that, if I had come with the idea that I was the one who was supposed to have a good time, I would have had a festival of disappointment. Only after I came to take out trash was I able to have any fun.