The Temple and the Train Station
Montreal, 2016 — Another Road, Another Test
As I stepped off the train at Gare Centrale in Montreal, my old friend Jeff was waiting for me.
I hadn’t seen him since I biked into the city from Halifax in 2010.
It was now 2016.
Everything had changed.
In the years between, I’d moved across the country to Edmonton, worked in construction, became vegan, then a personal trainer, and eventually entered the Vaishnava tradition of Hinduism. I’d even done a shorter solo bike tour through the Rockies.
And I was almost two years alcohol free.
But I wasn’t here to visit.
I was here to move.
Jeff was the last person I would see before entering the ashram.
Bhakti Begins
In Edmonton, I found Krishna—or maybe I just found structure.
Something that made sense. Something that slowed the noise.
It all started with a devotee I met in Toronto. He gave me a book and talked about Hare Krishna punk bands.
I said I’d read it. I didn’t.
Not until almost a year later—after becoming vegan, after diving into meditation and sobriety.
Eventually I began spending time and volunteering at a local Krishna temple, where I met two traveling monks—one from Toronto, one from Montreal.
The Bhakti path felt magnetic.
I was already doing my own version of Krishna worship, but this was when I got serious.
More orthodox. More intense.
Like everything else in my life, I didn’t understand balance. I dove headfirst.
I made vows.
Quit my job. Quit my band.
Left my partner.
Gave away, threw away, or stored most of my belongings.
And set out to become a monk.
Looking back, it was another moment shaped by undiagnosed neurodivergence.
Something felt safe and clear, so I gave it everything—too fast, too deep.
I didn’t yet understand that safety doesn’t always mean sustainability.
One Last Night with Jeff
Jeff and I had met in our twenties, during the chaos years.
Back then we were wild—drinkers, dreamers, wanderers.
Now I was sober.
He wasn’t.
But it didn’t matter.
He gave me the biggest hug when we met. I could smell the beer on his breath, but there was no judgment—on either side. Just presence.
He’d inherited some money and bought a condo.
He’d spent years on welfare, living slowly, intentionally—his own kind of spiritual.
Even with a neuroscience degree, Jeff lived off-grid in his mind.
We stayed up like old times—him with a beer, me with water—sharing music, memories, and laughter.
For a few hours, we were just two old friends, suspended in time.
The next morning, I took an Uber to the temple.
A Monk in Training
The monk who inspired me wasn’t there—he was traveling.
I was alone, walking into a French-speaking Krishna temple I had never been to, to live with people I’d never met.
I wasn’t nervous.
I felt called.
Chosen.
Empowered by Krishna.
And yet, I forgot one of the most important teachings of yoga:
Let go of the ego.
Most people were bilingual. Everyone was kind.
We slept on yoga mats.
Woke before sunrise.
Chanted. Sang.
Meditated on the Maha Mantra.
Cooked sacred vegetarian meals and served the local community—devotees and non-devotees.
It was beautiful in moments.
But it was also rigid.
The pace was intense.
And I didn’t yet understand how my brain worked.
I bottled everything up.
Internalized confusion.
Missed my ex, but thought my queerness made that wrong.
Felt I had to be perfect.
Sometimes outreach and service ran late into the night, and we still had to be up early.
The sleep deprivation piled up.
And my sensitivity—the same one that brought me here—started turning on me.
Even without the words for it, I knew:
this wasn’t sustainable.
Faith vs. Form
My time at the temple was short—but it didn’t need to be long.
Because something did land.
Even after I left the temple—not the organization(yet)—I carried a rhythm that would stay with me for years.
That rhythm carried me through yoga training.
Through massage school.
Through healing.
Those mantras did something.
They gave me focus.
They slowed my thoughts.
They helped me feel something close to peace.
The Last Hug
Jeff would visit me at the temple.
Because he drank, I wasn’t allowed to see him outside the temple walls.
Still, we found moments.
Moments that felt like old times.
Moments that reminded me who I was underneath it all.
The last time I saw him, I walked him partway home.
We hugged.
I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see his mortal form.
But something in me must have felt it.
The next time would just be in a dream.
The Exit
Things were breaking down.
Social misunderstandings.
Sensory overwhelm.
Frayed nerves.
The quiet burn of misalignment.
Two incidents stand out.
One day, while out distributing books, I shut down completely.
Overstimulated.
Needs unmet.
I froze on a bench and sat there in silence. Then I walked back alone.
There were other moments too—more personal—but the pressure kept building.
I had started speaking with my ex again, and though I’ll stay vague out of respect, it played a big role in my desire to return to Edmonton.
I’d spoken to the temple president there, and a return plan was set. I would go back to Edmonton via Toronto in a few weeks to rest and begin again.
But I didn’t make it that far.
After one restless night, a disagreement pushed me over the edge.
The monk who had brought me into this path—my lifeline—wasn’t around.
And that absence, which had been repeating itself, hit me hard.
I panicked.
Didn’t take space.
Didn’t stay with Jeff.
Didn’t pause.
I packed my bag and booked the first rideshare I could find.
The man who picked me up was driving a big truck-van hybrid.
He’d brought it up from South America—it was basically a house on wheels.
He was heading to Toronto to pick up a band.
And I was just a tattooed yogi with a bike, a sleeping bag, and a story unraveling.
It cost me $40.
It couldn’t go faster than 80 km/h.
But I had leg room.
And on the dashboard,
there was a Shiva sticker.
Something about that felt… right.
We talked the whole ride.
We’d both lived lives.
He dropped me off outside of Toronto, where my dad met us.
I moved my gear into his van, and we drove to Keswick.
I still had a month before flying back to Edmonton.
Somehow, I still had a little money.
Family helped.
A little bike trip was starting to form in my mind.
But I’ll save that for next Saturday.
Thank you for reading this part of the journey.
Every step, every ride, every goodbye has shaped what I now carry—and what I continue to share.
If these scrolls speak to something in you,
your presence, your support, or even just your reflection means more than you know.
🌿 redshanti.com
☕ ko-fi.com/redshanti
You’re welcome to walk with me—quietly, slowly, or not at all.
— Red Shanti
Tkaronto, 2025
Last Saturday
Wednesday
Other posts you may enjoy
The title gives us two different places and experiences then traces the movement between them. The train station a site of arrivals and departures, meetings and farewells. The temple by contrast offers reflection and worship perhaps stillness. Both are sites of discovery. When their balance shifts so do you. We learn about your journey of arriving at yourself and through this a greater understanding of our own journey.
1972, the year I became a Baha'i in Montreal, I also visited that Hare Krishna temple 2-3 times weekly to chant dance & sometimes eat the purified food. Every day while riding buses & walking streets of that great city, I'd have my hand in pocket, threading japa beads while mentally chanting the mantram or mumbling it quietly amidst sounds of the environment. Thanks for the sweet memories of bhaki which is still an important part of my practice.