The Seed of Dharma

— A journal entry about longing, chanting, and still not having it all figured out
by Richard

Opening: The Ache I Carry

There’s this ache I carry that I’ve never fully understood.
Not in my head. Not with language.
Just in my bones. And it’s always been there.

A pull toward something deeper.
A quiet whisper that doesn’t go away — even when I’m numb. Even when I’m skeptical.
Sometimes I wonder if this longing is the most consistent thing in my life.

And still… I question it.

Longing Isn’t a Flaw

I think I’ve always felt this way.
Even as a kid, I didn’t feel grounded.
I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere — not in school, not in my body, not even in my own family sometimes.

And I felt everything so deeply.
But emotions weren’t welcome. Especially not for a boy.

All I really wanted was to be held. To be seen.
To be told, “You matter.”
But what I heard was: “Don’t be so sensitive.”
“Get over it.”
“Man up.”

So I buried that part of me.

When Chanting Feels Empty

Chanting helped me find that buried part again.
But even now, it’s not always easy.

Just the other day I was chanting and felt… nothing.
No emotion. No presence. Just numbness.

And I immediately felt shame.

“You should be feeling something by now.”
“You’re leading others — what kind of example is this?”

But I stayed anyway.

When Something Opens

There are moments, though, when something opens.
At the last kirtan I co-led, my heart softened in this quiet, spacious way.

And I remembered something Krishna Das once told me:

“When I chant, I’m not chanting with people. I’m chanting with Maharaj-ji.”

I tried that.
I imagined I was singing to Maharaj-ji… but soon it shifted.
I was singing to the One — the thing that binds us all together.
The thread that connects every voice, every silence, every breaking heart.

In that moment, I felt woven in.

What I Actually Wrote One Night

And then there are the days when all I have is the ache.

Here’s what I wrote this weekend:

God,
I keep saying your name
but it feels like talking to a wall.
I sing the mantras,
I sit in the silence,
and all I hear is my own emptiness echoing back.

If this is what love feels like,
I don’t know if I want it.
Because I wouldn’t leave someone like this.
I wouldn’t stay so quiet when they were breaking.

I know—
they say you’re always here.
They say the longing itself is proof.
But that doesn’t help much
when the longing just hurts
and the silence starts to sound like indifference.

Still, here I am.
Saying your name again.
Not because I feel close to you—
but because I don’t know what else to do with this ache.

If you're real,
I need you to be real here.
Not in the heavens.
Not in scriptures.
Here—
where I feel forgotten.

And if you won’t come,
then at least stay near
when I stop pretending to feel you.

So Why Do I Keep Showing Up?

I don’t have a polished answer.

I just do.
Something in my soul keeps pulling me back.

I think I’ve touched something — even if briefly — that feels true.
Something that makes me want to keep singing.
Even when it hurts.
Even when I don’t believe.
Even when no one’s listening.

What Dharma Feels Like (To Me)

I don’t think dharma is a job title or spiritual mission.
For me, it feels like a quiet, persistent tug on my heart.

It says:
“Keep going.”
“Keep offering.”
“Let your voice rise even when you shake.”

Sometimes, I wonder if this path is mine to walk alone.
That maybe in this lifetime, I’m here to learn how to stand in the ache.
To not belong anywhere in particular — but to love anyway.

I’m Still in This

This isn’t a lesson.
This isn’t advice.
It’s just what’s true for me right now.

I still question.
I still ache.
I still chant.
I still reach.

And maybe that’s the practice.

Maybe that’s the seed of dharma.

“Maybe dharma isn’t where you belong. Maybe it’s how you love.”