I want to share a very personal journey – a realization that transformed not just my own spiritual practice, but my entire approach to guiding others on this sacred path.
Years ago, I would faithfully attend maṅgal-ārati at 5:00 a.m. in the temple and then sit with the devotees to chant japa for two hours. But gradually, I found myself quietly slipping away—or sometimes not showing up at all. Instead, I preferred to spend those precious early hours writing in my journal. At first it felt natural, but soon the guilt began to eat me alive. I thought to myself, “In another temple, they would have thrown me out by now.” Finally, with a heavy heart, I went to my Guru Maharaj and confessed.
His words became a lifeline piercing through my despair: “I trust you, but you must chant your japa daily for two hours anyway—you have vowed to do so. Why not chant with the other devotees?” Yet even this gentle guidance felt overwhelming and miserable. Now I was tormented by a second, more crushing guilt—the guilt of disappointing my guru, of failing to obey the one person who still believed in me.
But something beyond my own power called me to write in those sacred pre-dawn hours. As my pen moved across the page in the darkness, a revelation slipped through—words that would transform everything: “Inability to follow is not insincerity. I was willing to come to the temple but unable to.”
This distinction—between willingness and ability—became the birthplace of true compassion, both for myself and others.
I drew desperate strength from his words of trust, clinging to them like a drowning man clutches driftwood, and I continued to write. But still, guilt remained my relentless companion, shadowing every moment of my spiritual journey.
Slowly, my writing deepened. Journals turned into stories, reflections, and even glimpses of my childhood nature. I remembered how, in 1979, as a little boy, I cried for a pen when the teacher only allowed us to use pencils. She said, “Wait until you’re in fifth standard.” But I couldn’t wait. I was desperate. I didn’t know then but writing was my inner calling – I had this burning need to express, to create, to write.
Fast forward to 2016: That memory was my salvation. It reminded me that before I was a devotee, before I knew Krishna, there was already something authentic stirring within me—a calling, a natural inclination that brought me joy and connection.
But I was still torn between guilt of not following ashram rules, misery in my chanting, and the inner joy of writing.
The Counter-Intuitive Strategy
Then, one day, a counterintuitive thought came—not figured out but revealed in the heart: “Fix a time for japa in the evening—8 pm to 10 pm.” It was as if Krishna whispered, “Challenge the mind. Don’t give up.” But it also seemed rebellious, and my mind protested, “You’re not following ashram rules!” But I persevered with what felt natural first.
And something amazing happened. By the afternoon itself, after doing deity worship, bhajans, writing, story journal—all things that emotionally fulfilled me—I sat for japa. And suddenly I feltpeaceful. For the first time, I felt sheltered by the Holy Names instead of burdened by them.
Previously, when I desperately reached out to fellow devotees for help with my consuming guilt and japa struggles, they would offer what felt like empty consolations: “Japa is a happy burden. Continue to chant even if you feel dry and spiritually barren. It’s the burden of love—like a mother carrying her precious child.”
But my heart rebelled against this simplistic answer. “Many mothers suffer from post-partum depression,” I protested with growing frustration. “Carrying a child isn’t always blissful. It’s not easy to chant in the morning when your soul feels dead inside.”
Yet they persisted, almost mechanically: “You must chant in the morning itself. There is no other way.”
Their answers never satisfied the aching void within me—they felt hollow, disconnected from my lived reality. Now, years later, I finally understood why their well-meaning advice had felt so inadequate: because japa hadn’t yet become my shelter; it remained nothing more than a suffocating obligation. How could I find joy in something that felt like spiritual imprisonment rather than a divine embrace?
Now I realized: when my calling was honoured, chanting no longer weighed me down. It became my shelter. Over the years, that shelter grew stronger. Slowly, I could chant with devotees in the morning. Today, I complete my rounds seamlessly in the morning hours.
From Fanatic to Compassionate Guide
And the sweetest moment came when a young boy told me, “When I see you chanting in the morning, I feel inspired.”
But here’s the twist: when he expressed his difficulty to wake up early himself and chant in the morning, and he asked me for advice, I first gave him the fervent answer: “Morning chanting is the most important.” Later, I realized I was being a fanatic preacher—imposing my solution on his unique situation without understanding his heart.
I called him again and asked, “What helps you connect with God?” He didn’t know at first. I told him, “Then search for it. Because you didn’t come to Krishna consciousness by accident. Once you find what connects you, your chanting will become your shelter.”
That’s when I realized: I must preach not with fanaticism, but with compassion.
The New Paradigm: Connect First, Then Chant
Here’s what I now share with struggling devotees, born from my own crucible of spiritual confusion: “First connect, then chant.”
If you don’t know what helps you connect with your authentic self, then of course, begin with chanting. But if chanting has been a relentless struggle for years – if you’re drowning rather than being sheltered – then courageously search for what does ignite that divine spark within you. There has to be something sacred calling to your soul, because you didn’t stumble into Krishna consciousness by accident. You are a genuine spiritual seeker, and that seeking itself is holy.
If confusion clouds your path and chanting feels like sheer duty and crushing burden, then sit with that raw discomfort and continue chanting anyway—it will become your teacher, revealing exactly what is missing in your emotional and spiritual landscape.
When you finally discover and honour that inner calling (provided it remains dharmic), chanting begins to miraculously shift. What once felt heavy turns into peace, then into shelter, and finally into your number one priority.
Consider a young, unmarried man—irritable, restless, spiritually hungry but emotionally starved. When he marries and discovers emotional sanctuary, suddenly his grihastha ashram life and bhakti begin to make perfect sense. The principle remains unchanged: when we possess emotional and psychological shelter, spiritual practices transform from draining obligations into life-giving nourishment.
Of course, philosophically, we know that bhakti is independent—it does not depend on any material condition. But practically, we must arrange our lives in such a way that we can chant happily.
A practical strategy
For those who truly don’t know what connects them to their authentic self, I offer this strategy: Chant first thing in the morning. You won’t get ecstasy, but you will get bored and perhaps irritated. Continue anyway.
This boredom activates what neuroscientists call the ‘default mode network’ of your brain. In that uncomfortable space, if you sit with the discomfort, you’ll discover who you are. You’ll recognize what’s missing in your life emotionally, mentally, spiritually.
When that calling emerges—and you’ll know it’s authentic because it doesn’t break regulative principles and brings you peace—follow it. Then chanting will transform from duty to shelter.
Am I risking giving permission to do things other than chanting? Some might think so. But I’m not speaking as a rigid preacher—I’m speaking as a human being who cares about your emotional and mental well-being, knowing that ultimately, only Krishna can satisfy you completely.
Instead of making Krishna the rigid start, middle, and end of your life, I’m suggesting: Start with Krishna, allow Krishna to guide you through necessary adjustments in the middle, and then return to Krishna with authentic devotion.
Otherwise, you may remain an irritable, unfulfilled, unhappy devotee. And who does that serve?
This is my preaching goal: not to force Krishna into people’s schedules artificially, but to help them naturally make Krishna their shelter. Yes, chanting is supreme. But the path to chanting as shelter is personal and sometimes winding.
A final word
So, my message is simple:
- If you are already happy in Krishna consciousness, then you don’t need these words.
· But if you are struggling to find authentic shelter in Krishna consciousness, if you’re tired of forcing devotion instead of feeling it, then perhaps this approach might help you find your way home – begin with chanting, allow Krishna to guide you through your inner journey, and you will end with chanting as your shelter.
This is not about lowering standards—it’s about raising consciousness. It’s about finding the authentic doorway through which Krishna consciousness can naturally flood your heart and transform your life.
Please remember: the Holy Names are waiting to shelter you, not burden you. Trust the process. Trust your heart. And most importantly, trust that Krishna sees your sincerity even when your methods don’t match conventional expectations.
