by Becca Tzigany      

Maha Shivratri, March 2021

Today I got struck by lightning.

 

A thunderstorm rolled in, and just as it began to rain, it occurred to me that I should unplug appliances.  As I was on my way to do so ~ Shazam!  Flash! ~ a bolt of lightning found my router and burned it up.  The shelf where it sat is marred by black blast marks.

 

So, no internet tonight.  I cannot distract myself with work nor entertainment online. A break.  I arrange flowers, light candles, cook JB’s Italian sauce, and put on music.  I am taking myself in for dinner, feeling cozy inside my thick-walled adobe house, what with a chilly, drippy night outside.  Gauzy clouds lit by diffused moonlight slink between mountains. Cora the dog curls up on her bed, finally calming down after nearly being jolted out of her fur coat by the brilliant white flash and simultaneous roaring crack. 

I contemplate who brings thunderbolts. Zeus emphasizes his omnipotence with them, Thor strikes them from his magic hammer, and Mithra and Dionysus were born of them.  And Shiva . . . his vajra* penetrates Shakti.  The Masculine and Feminine join, and Creation ensues.  I contemplate my shocking visitation from the God.

 

 

 

 

The lightning bolt has cleaved me from the normal commotion of my life.  I feel the hush of annihilation, the eternal Now, the pause before anything else happens. I stand in the stillness of the mountain, the equanimity of Śūnyatā*, the rarefied meditation of Shiva. 

 

And then, arising in me is the impulse to move. The desire of Shakti, the Goddess, to create . . . to coax the Manifest from the Unmanifest, to stir the Supreme Yogi Shiva from his meditation.  Life beckons us to sip and smell and touch . . . My kitchen is laden with the aromas of rosemary, basil, and oregano diffusing from the red sauce on the stove. My mouth waters in anticipation of dinner.

 

On my altar sits a yoni-linga (more commonly known as a Shiva-linga).  The Masculine stands straight and tall, unwavering and hard, as the Feminine cradles Creation in the shape of a yoni.  Two serpents wind round the statue, like a double helix of DNA, weaving the magic of the life force by entwining the polarities.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sit down to dinner.  As I tilt the wine bottle into my goblet, I realize what I must do.  I pull out a chair for Shiva, and pour him a glass of wine, too.  Come, God, Come. 

 

We sit together at our candlelit table.   The tannins of the red wine tickle my tongue.  I thank him for all the Shiva men he has brought me.  I thank him for molding the Warrior within me.  And my Sovereign . . . and my Magician . .  and my Hermit Philosopher. 

 

 

 

“Living in duality is like this,” I say to him. “The extremes are jumping around so much as to wear you out, and the penchant for pain and suffering can slay you.  Since it takes so much energy to stay engaged, I figure I might as well go for the pleasure of existence.  I find myself on this biodiverse planet of myriad wonders.  I revel in it. 

 

“Just listen to that sitar and drums. Can you smell the fragrance of the marigolds in the vase?  And the wine?  But . . .it looks like you have not even touched it!” 

 

I toast my invisible dinner date and take a sip of the wine.  “It’s why I enjoy this plane so much.  Oh, living in a body requires great care and has unbelievable capacity for pain, but it also opens portals to transcendental realms of delight and pleasure. 

 

Thank you, Shiva, for dancing with me in a tango of contrasts.  What offering can I make to show my gratitude?  And please tell me, is there anything else I should know?  You went to great lengths to get my attention today when you charged through here like a tempest.”

 

Through the music filling the room, I hear his request, “Dance for me.”

 

I stand up from the table and onto the open floor to step and sway to the melodies of the godmen who happen to be singing with robust praise for life.  Then I walk outside and dance for Apu Mandango, the male mountain spirit of this valley.  I honor how he holds his unwavering consciousness, how he anchors the Shiva archetype.   It has stopped raining, and stars peek between clouds.  I breathe in the crisp air purified by a searing bolt from the Sky Father, a vajra with the power to awaken.

*  vajra = mystical weapon that is like a diamond (indestructible) and a thunderbolt (an irresistible force); phallus; lingam

* Śūnyatā  = the Buddhist concept of Emptiness, the Void

* apu = Andean concept for the Masculine Principle as manifest in mountains; protector; lord