Alleluia: Qui timent Dominum “He healeth those that are broken in heart: and bindeth up their wounds.” This line shines from the page handed to me at the entrance of King’s College Chapel, part of a sung mass I am about to hear.

Seems this site has lain neglected for a whole year now, while I’ve been writing elsewhere. Rather than a tedious round-up or a list of more specific apologies, I thought I’d highlight a favourite event of the last twelve months: singing Sri Chinmoy’s music in Norway and Iceland, with Temple-Song-Hearts.

I still go at least twice a year to visit the place where Sri Chinmoy spent most of his time – once in April and once in August. Some things are naturally different since his passing in 2007, but some things are still the same.

I am often reminded of a parable related by Ramakrishna to his disciples over a hundred years ago – a striking analogy of spiritual learning. As I recall, a tigress went to attack a herd of goats, but a hunter saw her and killed her. As she was dying she gave birth to a cub, who was left behind…

This story was first published in Inspiration-Letters #25, an online magazine of articles, written by members of the Sri Chinmoy Centre around the world. The theme for this edition is “Living in the Now”.

On July 28th, renowned Olympians, peace leaders, artists and musicians came together in London to celebrate the Olympic spirit of peace and universal friendship, by unveiling the “World Peace Dreamer” statue – a bronze sculpture of Sri Chinmoy holding an Olympic-style peace torch.

Is there such a thing as a junkophobe? That’s me. I buy the same thing over and over because I keep throwing useful stuff away; I’m ruthless to the point of impracticality. I can’t tolerate anything old, broken, unlovely, unclean, or out of place. Then what is this old Cheese Doodles packet doing here?

I did not have a religious or overtly spiritual upbringing, and I am grateful to my family for not forcing any beliefs on me, but it seems quite funny now looking back on my first childly interpretations of religion, not really having a clue what any of it meant inwardly.

Last week I had the good fortune to be involved in breaking a Guinness Record: the world’s longest flower garland. The previous record was 1.6 miles in Tahiti. This was 2.15 miles: an unbroken circle of carnation blooms around Meadow Lake, Flushing Meadow, New York.

I was eighteen months old when advertisements came out for a major exhibition in London. The image on the station wall beguiled me: a gigantic burial mask, two wide eyes in frames of kohl, a gentle smile of gold and a collar of precious stones.