Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu !

Lord Shiva And Lord Vishnu ! Indian man (7): Swamiji, Siva is not another name of God? Prabhupada: Yes. Siva is next to God. Just like yogurt, dahi. What is this dahi? Indian man (7): Curd milk. Prabhupada: Milk, but it is not milk. Dahi is not anything but milk, but it is not milk. Similarly, Lord Siva is nothing but Visnu, but it is not Visnu. Is it clear now? Indian man (7): Yes. Prabhupada: You can say, "Well, dahi is nothing but milk." Yes. But it is not milk. If instead of milk you take dahi, the result will be different. And if you take milk instead of dahi, the result will be different, although the milk and dahi is the same thing, same ingredients. So you have to understand in that way. Lord Siva is nondifferent from the Supreme Lord. Everyone is nondifferent from Supreme Lord, but he's still different. This is the perfect philosophy, acintya-bhedabheda, simultaneously one and different. ----------------- Morning Walk -- October 5, 1975, Mauritius Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

Whatis the mystery of Kailash?

Whatis the mystery of Kailash? The south face of Kailash Parvat has a scar as if something rolled down from it. When Ravana tried to take Shiva to Lanka, he first tried to lift it and tried to take the whole mountain. But Shiva effortlessly crushed him down with his toe. Then, Ravana climbed Kailash to take Mahadev. When he reached the peak, Mahadev kicked him down from his drum and Ravana fell down the mountain leaving this scar which we see today. There is also a lake near Kailash named Rakshastaal. It is said that Ravana sacrificed his 9 heads here and the lake was made from his blood.

IS IT A LIE?

Sat 6 Dec, 22:24 (3 days ago) to Good Morning!!! IS IT A LIE? Around the Year with Emmet Fox December 7 Thoughtless people sometimes say that our affirmations and meditations are foolish because we state what is not so. “To claim that my body is well or being healed when it is not, is only to tell a lie,” said one distinguished man some years ago. This is to misunderstand the whole principle. We affirm the harmony that we seek in order to provide the subconscious with a blueprint of the work to be done. When you decide to build a house your architect prepares drawings of a complete house. Actually, of course, there is no house on the lot today, but you would not think of saying that the architect was drawing a lie. He is drawing what is to be, in order that it may be. So, we build in thought the conditions that will later come into manifestation on the physical plane. What is your intelligence for if not to be used in building the kind of life that you want? Very primitive men in prehistoric times rejoiced when they found food growing anywhere, and then they waited, perhaps for years, until they happened to find another crop. Today we use our intelligence, and plant in good time the actual crops that we want; and the amount that we consider necessary. We do not sit about hoping that wheat or barley may fortunately come up somewhere. If we did that, civilization would collapse. The time has come when intelligent men and women must understand the laws of Mind, and plant consciously the crops that they desire; and just as carefully pull up the weeds that they do not want. “Then I told them of the hand of my God which was good to me; . . . and they said, Let us rise up and build. So, they strengthened their hands for the good work” Nehemiah 2:18

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter.

My name is Ruth, I’m 72 years old, and yesterday, I became a "person of interest" to my own daughter. Not because I’m sick. Not because I’m senile. But because I cashed out my life savings. Every last cent. My daughter, Jessica, a Vice President in Silicon Valley, thinks I’ve lost my mind. She’s flying in tomorrow from California to conduct what she called, on the phone, an "intervention." She doesn’t realize I just performed a "resuscitation." On myself. For forty-five years, I was Ruth, the Head Nurse of the ER at St. Jude’s. My world was the smell of betadine, burnt coffee, and desperation. I held hands, broke ribs during CPR, and delivered more heartbreaking news than I can bear to remember. My world was chaos, and I ran it. Then I retired. Six months later, my husband, Frank, passed. And the silence swallowed me. Jessica is a good person. She’s just… efficient. She manages teams of coders who build apps that "optimize human connection." She can’t handle a problem she can’t solve with a spreadsheet. So, she "fixed" me. She sold my home and moved me into a "Gilded Willow" active senior community. It was all glass and brushed steel. It also felt like a high-tech cage. She gave me a wearable bracelet that tracked my heart rate, steps, and "fall risk." It felt like an ankle monitor. My golden years became a timetable: 10 a.m. Water Aerobics, 2 p.m. "Cognitive Engagement" (Bingo), 5 p.m. Low-Sodium Dinner. I wasn’t living. I was being managed. "Mom, the data shows you’re thriving!" she’d say during video calls, her eyes flicking to another screen. "Jessica, I’ve ‘rested’ for two years," I told her last week. "It’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done." The spark lit the next day. I was riding the bus—just to feel movement—when I noticed it. "The Sunrise Grill." Frank took me there on our first date in 1973. We shared a slice of apple pie. Now it had a "For Sale by Owner" sign next to a failing health grade. I went inside. The place was empty except for a young man in his early twenties, hunched over a laptop, pale in its glow. I tapped the counter. "This surface is a health code violation." He startled and snapped his laptop shut. "Uh—ma’am, we’re not… we’re closing. For good." "I can see that," I said, eyeing the stale coffee. "Who’s in charge?" "I am," he said, rubbing his eyes. He looked like many of my old septic patients—clammy, exhausted, running on fumes. "My name’s Alex. It was my grandpa’s diner. He… he passed." "COVID?" I asked. He let out a bitter laugh. "No. He survived COVID. It was the hospital bills that crushed us. I’ve been trying to run the place and pay it all off, but…" He gestured hopelessly. He was trying to erase massive debt with scrambled eggs. My nursing instincts took over. This wasn’t just a failing business. It was a trauma scene. "How much?" I asked. "Ma’am?" "How much to clear the debt and buy this diner?" He told me. It was almost exactly the amount of my life savings. "I’ll be here tomorrow at 6 a.m.," I said, taking out my checkbook. "I’m not your partner. I’m your boss. We’re saving this place. Now go home and sleep eight hours. You’re in adrenal fatigue." Jessica’s phone call afterward was… dramatic. "You WHAT? You liquidated your retirement for a diner? Mom, that’s an unsecured, high-risk asset! It’s unsanitary! I’m calling your doctor for a cognitive evaluation—" "Jessica, you can’t optimize kindness. I have to go. The grill needs scrubbing." I hung up. The first month was brutal. But it was the kind of chaos I knew how to fix. The Sunrise Grill didn’t just need a cook. It needed a Head Nurse. I know how to repair what’s broken. The old regulars trickled back in. Walt, a Vietnam vet, always sat in his corner booth, grumped, and never finished his toast. One morning, I brought him oatmeal instead. "Didn’t order this," he muttered. "I know, Walt," I said, refilling his coffee. "Forty-five years as a nurse taught me when dentures are bothering a man. Eat." He stared at me over the spoon. Then he ate. Then there was Chloe—a young woman, exhausted, trying to breastfeed under a blanket while typing on her laptop. The whole diner was tense. I walked over and gently closed her laptop. "I… I have a deadline," she whispered, voice cracking. "No," I said, switching into Head Nurse mode. "You have a child. And you’re running a fever. You’re dehydrated." I lifted the baby. The crying stopped immediately, soothed by an old nurse’s rhythm. "Alex!" I shouted. "Large orange juice and chicken soup for Chloe. On the house." Chloe collapsed into soft, silent sobs—the kind only an overwhelmed woman cries when she thinks she’s failing everything. The Sunrise Grill wasn’t a diner anymore. It was my station. Jessica arrived on a rainy Friday, iPad in hand, ready to "intervene." "Mom, this ends now. I’ve already talked to a lawyer about conservatorship—" She stopped. The diner was packed. Warm. Alive. "Where," she whispered, "is my mother?" She found me in the back booth. Chloe sat across from me, baby sleeping in a carrier. She was crying quietly. "...and I just feel like I’m failing, Ruth," she whispered. "I’m so tired. I feel like I’m failing my baby, my job…" I didn’t offer fixes. I didn’t give her steps. I just took her hand. My 72-year-old, wrinkled hand holding her trembling 25-year-old one. "No, honey," I said softly. "You’re not failing. You’re drowning. That means you’re still fighting. Now breathe." Jessica froze, watching something her algorithms couldn’t quantify. Something inefficient. Human. Real. She slowly backed away and went to the counter. Alex looked up. "Can I help you, ma’am?" Jessica’s eyes were wet. "I’ll have… the chicken soup. And a slice of the apple pie." In that sterile, “smart” apartment, I was a data point. A "fall risk." A liability. Here, in the chaos of The Sunrise Grill, I am necessary. They tell you to rest when you get old. They tell you to stay safe. But a ship in a harbor is safe, and that’s not what ships are for. My hands are wrinkled, my back aches—yet I am far from obsolete. We are not disposable because we’re gray. We are not "managed care." We *are* the care. We remember how to hold a hand, how to listen, how to make the soup. Don’t let them file you away. Don’t let them "optimize" you into invisibility. Go find your station.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects.

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)?

Why did Lord Vishnu have children with Mata Sita and even her mother Bhudevi (mother Earth)? Bhagvān Viṣṇu incarnated as Rāma and his consort Bhagvatī Lakṣmī incarnated as Sītā. The mother of all the worlds, Lakṣmī appeared as Sītā from the earth hence earth is considered the mother of the Sītā incarnation of Lakṣmī. This doesn't make Bhudevī the mother of Sītā in the way you are interpreting things. Rāma didn't have any other wife except Sītā so there's no question of children. On the other hand Bhūdevī is Viṣṇu's consort too, because she's an aspect of Lakṣmī. In his incarnation as Varāha, Bhagvān Viṣṇu becomes the father of his and Bhūdevī's offspring. Bhagvatī Lakṣmī divides herself into 3 aspects- Śrīdevī, Bhūdevī and Nīlādevī. This is mentioned in the scriptures. “The Goddess Śrī/Lakṣmī assumes a threefold form in conformity with the Lord’s will for the protection of the world. That she (Lakṣmī) is styled as Śrī and is known as such. The Goddess Bhū is the Earth comprising the seven islands and the seas; the container and the contents of the fourteen worlds such as bhū, etc.; and her essence is Praṇava. Nīlā is festooned with lightnings. To nourish all herbs and living beings, She assumes all forms." ~ Sītā Upaniṣad. “That Lakṣmī is the Earth only, well-known as goddess Nīlā. Being the support of the world, she has resorted to the form of the earth. She herself would be of the form of Nīlā due to her liquid form of the nature of water etc. She has obtained the form of Lakṣmī (Śrī). She is of the nature of wealth and speech.” ~ Padma Purāṇa. “As the consort of Viṣṇu, Śrī — the presiding deity of sattva-guṇa. As the presiding deity of tamo-guṇa, She is Durgā (Nīlā) or Kanyākā. As the goddess of earth, the presiding deity of rajo-guṇa, She is the consort of the Boar (Varāha). ~ Garuḍa Purāṇa. Thus Lakṣmī in the forms of Śrī, Bhū and Nīlā is the consort of Viṣṇu. As Sītā she's the consort of his incarnation Rāma and specifically in the form of Bhūdevī, she's the consort of his incarnation Varāha. Sītā's birth from the earth doesn't make Bhudevī her biological mother when the true self of Sītā, Lakṣmī herself is Bhūdevī. Thus Lakṣmī's incarnation appeared from one of her own aspects