Goddess Kali

Goddess Kali steps onstage first in the Goddess Forum,
a series of musings by various authors about the challenges and joys
of developing "goddessness" in our daily lives. Links to articles,
poetry, and other expressions can be found at the bottom of this page.

I was repotting some other plants that day and thought I'd transfer it from its little green container into one of my newly emptied large clay pots. I preferred the look of red clay to green plastic. The plant looked way too small for the pot, however within a week, it doubled in size.  Soon after that the buds came.

There was clearly a lesson here about room to grow, benign neglect, and not seeking what is right before one's eyes. Nevertheless, the plant forgave my triple-sin of omission. Within three weeks it greeted me with an incredible flower, brilliant red, five perfect petals opening to the morning. It was only then I realized this plant was a hibiscus. And that it had something to teach me about tending living things.

In the beginning it was just a couple of tiny white flies. The plant had lived through so many seasons. It was strong, vital, and so good-natured I was sure it would peacefully co-exist with these little specks of insect life. This was not to be. Little by little the white flies took over, and I could see it weakening. I tried everything. Natural remedies. Toxic remedies. Everyone had a suggestion. Nothing worked. The bugs multiplied. The plant diminished.

My heart broke as I watched my beautiful hibiscus slowly wither and start to die. I could barely go near it, feeling I had failed: that by allowing this plant to die I had broken a promise to it and to myself to be a careful nurturer of life.

We brought all the houseplants outside for the warm season. By now, the leaves of the hibiscus were shriveled and dry, the white flies circling all around it.   I knew it was dying, but since I could not bring myself to toss it into the weed pile, I set it outside with the others. That was when I heard the voice, clear, direct, without a trace of pity. Cut it back. Remove everything but the lowest stumps. Leave only one leaf. Do not wait a moment longer. Do it now.

It felt like murder, but I know this voice. I think of it as my Kali voice; when it speaks, I listen.   I got my pruning shears and started cutting, singing a chant from the Indian goddess tradition, the "Hymn to the Great Mother", with each clave of the blades.

The hibiscus was indeed "naked and bowed low". With nothing left to feed on, the white flies disappeared. The hibiscus sat for about a month, a few dead stumps rising from a large clay pot. Every time I looked at it, I too felt "naked and bowed low". Then one day in mid-June, I saw a spot of green pushing out of the central stem. By July the stumps were covered with small green leaves. The hibiscus lived. By August it was rounder, fuller, lusher, than every before. It seemed to have a new vitality, like it knew something it hadn't known before. Or maybe it was me who knew something I hadn't known before. Something about roots and the power of darkness. Something about how even  when we think nothing is happening, something is happening.

Then the buds began. Previously the hibiscus put out five or six blossoms at a time, but now it was covered with flowers.   It was a glorious explosion of red vermilion. That was when I knew it was Kali, come to teach me about death as a doorway to life; about the power of descent; about the wisdom of the sword when we wield it with the compassionate touch of the Mother. A gardener might say it was simply a matter of proper pruning. For me it was more than that. I'd watched the hibiscus return from the mouth of death, radiant, resplendent, alive.

Cutting back my hibiscus was a fierce act. I had to let go of blame and self-pity, heed a powerful inner voice, take a chance on a bunch of dead stubs in a pot. I had to trust in the mysterious darkness. This is Kali work, cutting away that which is dead, diseased, bug-ridden, finished, blocking our way--severing the ties that bind us.

Ultimately, of course, all is Kali, all is the Mother. The hibiscus, the white flies, the gods, the demons, the beautiful, the terrible, the eternal cycle of life, death and transformation. She spits us out of her womb and eats us back into it, over and over again.

Her hair is wild, her tongue sticks out, she holds a severed head in one of her many hands. She is the embodiment of the fierce feminine, protectress of the heart, come to wrest us from all that keeps us from our Truth. Some say there is none who is more compassionate.

We need room to grow. We need fresh air, warm sun, good food, clean water, and most of all, we need love. Sometimes that love is fierce, rising up to safeguard our time or creativity or pupose, our loved ones or community.

When the white flies start buzzing around, zapping our vitality and strength, covering us with a veil of torpor and forgetfulness, that is the time to call on Kali.

Kali is the fierce energy of the psyche, the light of discrimination, the sword of wisdom, the power to recognize what must be done and to do it. Kali's sword shapes and refines our lives, honing and sculpting us, making order out of chaos, showing us the meaning, beauty and purpose of our lives. The sword in the hands of Kali is good and just. It is not the sword of violence and cruelty. Kali's sword is the compassionate blade of the mother.

Kali is also the fertile darkness, the deep dark void, the every-changing cycles of time. She teaches us through every phase, if we will only open up our ears and hearts and eyes and really listen.

I feel the warmth of the sun, sweet touch of the earth, fresh taste of water, and know that all of this, earth, water, fire, and air, is all of me. The tea I drank for breakfast, soup I ate for lunch, all the plants that made it, the heat that cooked it, all of it is Her becoming me and me becoming Her.

So tending my hibiscus, I tend it lovingly, as I try to tend myself and all with whom I come in contact, remembering that we are all one living presence of the Goddess, who is everywhere, in everything, the very stuff from which this universe is made.

Points of Reflection

Do you get a bit queazy when you read about the Indian gods and goddesses (or, for that matter, those from other cultures) who were fearsome? Do you find the Hindu goddess Kali's appearance disturbing? Does the idea of a woman being furious (or experiencing her ferocity)  please you, or does it disturb you, for example by displays of anger seeming "unsafe" or not "lady-like"? 

Many women develop their capacity for "righteous anger" and outspokeness in late midlife. Do you think this is a good thing for them, their friends and family, society in general? Is it something you admire?

What do you think of the idea that all of us (women) tend to have too much "stuff" in our lives, things that stand in the way of our living with truth or authenticity in our lives. What are some of the things you think women need to "prune" from their lives?

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