I've been bitten by dogs. Once in the butt, when I was a twelve-year-old paperboy, by a customer's loose German shepherd ex-police dog. Another time in the face by my cousin's Great Dane, Zander, whom I made the mistake of saying "Hey, Zander!" to as I walked too close to the car window he was looking out of.
dṛṣṭaiḥ svabhāva-janitair vapuṣaś ca doṣair
na prākṛtatvam iha bhakta janasya paśyet
gaṅgāmbhasāṁ na khalu budbuda-phena-paṅkair
brahma-dravatvam apagacchati nīra-dharmaiḥ
"This is the best," I said. I was walking on the beach; it was quarter to eight in the morning, low tide, cool breeze—the low angle of sunrays lit the earth and sky into such rich, deep, otherworldly golden tones that I felt I had ascended to a higher realm. I half-expected to see luminous beings walking without touching the ground or riding unicorns and dolphins.
Some years ago in the old temple room at Gita-nagari, I was chanting japa in the back of the room, where hung individual portraits of the previous gurus in our line. One is Jagannatha dasa babaji, who’s credited with rediscovering the place of Lord Caitanya’s appearance in Mayapura, West Bengal. On a pilgrimage to that holy place, I had heard a few details of his life. He’d lived to be over a hundred years old, and his eyelids had drooped down over his eyes, rendering him virtually blind.
Dallas Morning News,
I was chanting japa around the fountain at the Alachua temple with Mahatma Prabhu. He told me a few things about chanting:
"This mantra is dangerous. It will make you want to renounce the world." And,