Kali, Goddess of darkness, I understand you now; warrior of light.
As I stand amidst the ashes of your blazing fire I do not grieve.
Where once I feared your roaring thunder and black endless skies
I no longer
Kali, great teacher; polarity is the genesis of love.
From darkness emerges the diamond, from death emerges the soul.
Kali, I see your cycles in every nuance of nature,
in the descent of the sun-
where death holds life in holy embrace.
~ ~ ~
I sat on the beach and watched the sun set on the last day of daylight savings, reflecting on the month just passed. March was a month that burned slowly, I felt many things fall away in the fire. I felt the fierce but loving presence of truth, permeating the neatly arranged surface of my life. I was reminded, that we have little control, so much control, so little control. It’s an art; holding on and letting go, treading lightly, sensing with wildish instincts when is the time to leave the cave and pursue, when to retreat. When to sow seeds and when to reap harvest. In this case, any effort to ‘know’ or ‘explain’ sucked me into a kaleidoscope of dizzying colour and thoughts that haunted as my mind pulled me this way and that, trying to determine what was right and wrong, how it was supposed to be. I was forced to surrender, duality refused to exist.
I set intention to anchor light, and dreamed of death, devils and shadows. At times, I felt more alone than I ever have, I had nowhere to run from myself. But gradually, I experienced the peaceful coexistence of darkness and the beautiful. As I allowed things to decay and die, I felt new life bloom. Death gives to life gives to death gives to life…
Kali is a goddess who has terrified me. She, with her sword and garland of skulls; threatening to kill of all that needs to die. Why is she so fearsome when she only kills that which does not live? Why do we cower from our truth? These are relevant questions.
On the beach I contemplated the night that was soon to come and the imminent winter. I am afraid of the dying. That, I cannot deny. Though I remember that this is art-form. Clarissa Pinkola Estes calls it untangling the skeleton woman. With this untangling I know, I feel and I experience the burgeoning through the rubble. The trajectory, the unfolding. All grows. Two parts to a whole… death is a warrior and a protector, never has there been more life.