Okay, I love the incongruity of a nice Jewish boy from Long Island chanting Hindu devotional tunes (a Hind-Jew) at the Irish Heritage Center. Tickling me more was how he revved up the crowd for the old gospel tune “I’ve got a main line to Jesus. Tell him what you want…”

I spent most of the event with my eyes closed and my heart open. I heard the man directly behind me clapping his hands to the beat. I heard women a few rows back exchanging recipes. If I caught the same conversation at a movie theater, I may have “hymph”ed my displeasure under my breath. But I wasn’t bothered. I heard my own voice, imperfect in pitch, stumbling over many Sanskrit phrases, and I didn’t care. I sang louder. This level of self-forgiveness was rare indeed. I can apologize to friends for the bad weather at a baseball game I bought tickets for. Imagine me, singing out loud like this.

How did I get here? This place of compassion?

Krishna Das sings as a form of service. It is liberating to be with people who offer their service so lovingly. And there must be something about making music too, about making sound; to know I can be heard outside of my own internal dialogue. By singing, I declared myself ready to participate, ready to make noise, make mistakes, be touched, be affected.

After the concert, I approached the stage. I don’t know why exactly. I saw a barefoot man with slightly graying hair, wearing brown pants and a brown knit tee. I hugged him. I had nothing to say that he didn’t already know.

Thanking someone from such a deep place is no small thing.