The Goddess Kali

I know something important is happening for me when I react with gasps and strange noises rather than thinking. Such was the case when I received this amazing, two-foot-tall book called Goddesses of the Celestial Gallery by Nepalese artist Romio Sherestha, whom I met a couple of weeks ago at the Book Expo in Los Angeles. I met him with his publicist, the lovely Eileen Duhné. Eileen and I had corresponded on other projects, but there's nothing like personal contact.

I mean that for people, books, and I guess most everything. Something is lost in this age of digital pictures and email letters — something that can reach inside your gut and twist you in all directions, blessedly silencing your mind. When I first saw Sherestha's painting of Kali, my heart went into spasms, my arms flailed, and I emitted noises I cannot describe.

In the Hindu religion, Kali is known as the warrior goddess, the shadow slayer, the slayer of illusions. Associated with time, transitions, and the unpredictable, she is fierce and frightening with blue-black skin, fangs dripping blood, 10 arms, and pelts of human heads . . . and I've always been drawn to her.

This is a little surprising because I'm an absolute wimp when it comes to confrontations. I'll do anything to avoid them and have been criticized for my tendency to isolate. But I've been wondering, do I isolate because I adore this dark power and am afraid of unleashing it inappropriately?

Perhaps.

In the foreword to the book, Deepak Chopra suggests you use these paintings for meditation. Close your eyes and let the goddess dwell within you, he says. I've been doing this . . . and I feel a fire — her fire. My fire. And it feels good. Very good.

In the July/August issue of Spirituality & Health, I wrote an article called "Is Fear of Snakes in Our DNA?" about a study on snake recognition. Our ability to recognize snakes, regardless of our real-life experience with them, appears to be something called "prepared learning." You'll have to read the article to get the whole story, but suffice it to say, snakes are a very hot topic in all cultures and traditions, a lot of people fear them, and Kali represents the power inside the snake . . . and I like it. No, I love it. And fear it.

Editor-in-chief Steve Kiesling and I argue a lot, and this article brought out some intense differences of opinion — the very kind of confrontation I find so intolerable. But we stuck with it, and I think the article came out much better than if I had just done it my way … in isolation.

So what am I talking about here? Kali, arguments, snakes, fears? I'm not sure, but I sense — because of the movements with no words inside me — that it's all connected. Not just for me, but for everybody.

Maybe it has something to do with loving this dark power inside us, trusting and revering it in a way that precludes us from isolating or misusing it on others. If we really understood and valued it, we would direct it where it can do the proper killing — inside.

But what do I know? This is just blogging blab. What do you think?

P.S. My dog's name is Maya — named by the animal rescue person who gave her to me. In Sanskrit, Maya means illusion. I'm in love with her too.