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"
But
I
have
a
brave
heart
!
"
I
piped
up
,
in
my
own
defense
.
"
And
other
sterling
qualities
,
"
added
Richard
,
tossing
me
a
bone
for
once
in
his
life
.
The
biggest
obstacle
in
my
Ashram
experience
is
not
meditation
,
actually
.
That
’
s
difficult
,
of
course
,
but
not
murderous
.
There
’
s
something
even
harder
for
me
here
.
The
murderous
thing
is
what
we
do
every
morning
after
meditation
and
before
breakfast
(
my
God
,
but
these
mornings
are
long
)
-
a
chant
called
the
Gurugita
.
Richard
calls
it
"
The
Geet
.
"
I
have
so
much
trouble
with
The
Geet
.
I
do
not
like
it
at
all
,
never
have
,
not
since
the
first
time
I
heard
it
sung
at
the
Ashram
in
upstate
New
York
.
I
love
all
the
other
chants
and
hymns
of
this
Yogic
tradition
,
but
the
Gurugita
feels
long
,
tedious
,
sonorous
and
insufferable
.
That
’
s
just
my
opinion
,
of
course
;
other
people
claim
to
love
it
,
though
I
can
’
t
fathom
why
.
The
Gurugita
is
182
verses
long
,
for
crying
out
loud
(
and
sometimes
I
do
)
,
and
each
verse
is
a
paragraph
of
impenetrable
Sanskrit
.
Together
with
the
preamble
chant
and
the
wrap
-
up
chorus
,
the
entire
ritual
takes
about
an
hour
and
half
to
perform
.
This
is
before
breakfast
,
remember
,
and
after
we
have
already
had
an
hour
of
meditation
and
a
twenty
-
minute
chanting
of
the
first
morning
hymn
.
The
Gurugita
is
basically
the
reason
you
have
to
get
up
at
3
:
00
AM
around
here
.
I
don
’
t
like
the
tune
,
and
I
don
’
t
like
the
words
.
Whenever
I
tell
anyone
around
the
Ashram
this
,
they
say
,
"
Oh
,
but
it
’
s
so
sacred
!
"
Yes
,
but
so
is
the
Book
of
Job
,
and
I
don
’
t
choose
to
sing
the
thing
aloud
every
morning
before
breakfast
.
The
Gurugita
does
have
an
impressive
spiritual
lineage
;
it
’
s
an
excerpt
from
a
holy
ancient
scripture
of
Yoga
called
the
Skanda
Purana
,
most
of
which
has
been
lost
,
and
little
of
which
has
been
translated
out
of
Sanskrit
.
Like
much
of
Yogic
scripture
,
it
’
s
written
in
the
form
of
a
conversation
,
an
almost
Socratic
dialogue
.
The
conversation
is
between
the
goddess
Parvati
and
the
almighty
,
all
-
encompassing
god
Shiva
.
Parvati
and
Shiva
are
the
divine
embodiment
of
creativity
(
the
feminine
)
and
consciousness
(
the
masculine
)
.
She
is
the
generative
energy
of
the
universe
;
he
is
its
formless
wisdom
.
Whatever
Shiva
imagines
,
Parvati
brings
to
life
.
He
dreams
it
;
she
materializes
it
.
Their
dance
,
their
union
(
their
Yoga
)
,
is
both
the
cause
of
the
universe
and
its
manifestation
.
In
the
Gurugita
,
the
goddess
is
asking
the
god
for
the
secrets
of
worldly
fulfillment
,
and
he
is
telling
her
.
It
bugs
me
,
this
hymn
.
I
had
hoped
my
feelings
about
the
Gurugita
would
change
during
my
stay
at
the
Ashram
.
I
’
d
hoped
that
putting
it
in
an
Indian
context
would
cause
me
to
learn
how
to
love
the
thing
.
In
fact
,
the
opposite
has
happened
.
Over
the
few
weeks
that
I
’
ve
been
here
,
my
feelings
about
the
Gurugita
have
shifted
from
simple
dislike
to
solid
dread
.
I
’
ve
started
skipping
it
and
doing
other
things
with
my
morning
that
I
think
are
much
better
for
my
spiritual
growth
,
like
writing
in
my
journal
,
or
taking
a
shower
,
or
calling
my
sister
back
in
Pennsylvania
and
seeing
how
her
kids
are
doing
.
Richard
from
Texas
always
busts
me
for
skipping
out
.
"
I
noticed
you
were
absent
from
The
Geet
this
morning
,
"
he
’
ll
say
,
and
I
’
ll
say
,
"
I
am
communicating
with
God
in
other
ways
,
"
and
he
’
ll
say
,
"
By
sleeping
in
,
you
mean
?
"
But
when
I
try
to
go
to
the
chant
,
all
it
does
is
agitate
me
.
I
mean
,
physically
.
I
don
’
t
feel
like
I
’
m
singing
it
so
much
as
being
dragged
behind
it
.
It
makes
me
sweat
.
This
is
very
odd
because
I
tend
to
be
one
of
life
’
s
chronically
cold
people
,
and
it
’
s
cold
in
this
part
of
India
in
January
before
the
sun
comes
up
.
Everyone
else
sits
in
the
chant
huddled
in
wool
blankets
and
hats
to
stay
warm
,
and
I
’
m
peeling
layers
off
myself
as
the
hymn
drones
on
,
foaming
like
an
overworked
farm
horse
.
I
come
out
of
the
temple
after
the
Gurugita
and
the
sweat
rises
off
my
skin
in
the
cold
morning
air
like
fog
-
like
horrible
,
green
,
stinky
fog
.
The
physical
reaction
is
mild
compared
to
the
hot
waves
of
emotion
that
rock
me
as
I
try
to
sing
the
thing
.
And
I
can
’
t
even
sing
it
.
I
can
only
croak
it
.
Resentfully
.
