Fully alive, that is. It was a beautifully organized and produced three days of music, yoga, and meditation, here in my own backyard. Holla, Madison, WI.
It was a turning point in my life; a time to say some farewells to the past and start walking a new path. Taking yoga classes with friends made me treasure them more. Chanting and dancing late into the night with them and with strangers initiated a shift in my mind and heart. Tears were spilling down my face all weekend. Tears of laughter, joy and understanding.
I’m not religious. I f!cking love Bill Maher. But kirtan really gets me excited. Call it spirituality. Call it a far cry from growing up guilty and Catholic. As a ten year old, when I looked around my church during catechism, people looked scared, angry and salty. Maybe it was the lighting. Or lack of communion wine. Or lack of community. Perhaps it was because my well-meaning parents forced me to go and I would rather have been reading Stephen King books and pretending to be She-ra: Princess of Power.
Take a glance, however, through Mitchell Manz’s stellar photographs and you’ll see people of spirit and faith looking free and easy.
Because I’m a brazen, godless, liberal heathen, I was uncomfortable with the idea of calling myself a Bhakti yogi. Hell, a year ago, I was uncomfortable with chanting in yoga class. But no one checked my deity card at the door. Everyone’s ‘with the band’ at Bhakti Fest.
You can find all of my Yoganonymous coverage of Bhakti fest on my author page, along with more cheeky articles.
Bhakti means falling in love with love. ~ Krishna Das