February 24-28 2025
Shiva’s Threshold: Surrender, Chaos, and the Path Unfolding
As darkness turns to light, I feel Kali’s veil slowly lifting. My journey to Rishikesh has been a lesson in surrender—starting at 3 AM in Bali with a pounding migraine and ending past midnight in a dimly lit room that initially felt suffocating. After what felt like an endless string of obstacles, I was met with an overwhelming sense of heaviness upon arrival. The room had almost no natural light, casting eerie shadows that mirrored my internal state. It felt like impending doom. Yet, with the morning came a shift.
Stepping into the top-floor restaurant, I was greeted by cascading sunlight, fresh greenery, and floor-to-ceiling windows that breathed life into the space. The contrast was almost poetic—what had first appeared suffocating and dark had transformed into something beautiful, much like the mind when freed from its illusions. The frustration and exhaustion I carried were remnants of maya, the illusory world of the mind that distorts reality. But when I stopped grasping at worst-case scenarios, when I stopped searching for an escape and simply allowed myself to be, everything shifted. Presence is the great alchemist—turning fear into peace, frustration into acceptance, and resistance into flow.
I find myself questioning the way I engage with life. What would it look like to calm down, to meet discomfort with maturity instead of reaction? To step out of the exhausting duality of good versus bad, right versus wrong, and simply accept what is? Duality has been tearing at my consciousness, pulling me apart at the seams. But maybe it’s time to soften. Maybe the lesson isn’t about controlling the moment but about allowing it to unfold, about embracing impermanence. Everything exists only for a fleeting moment before dissolving into the next. This is the essence of Shiva—the great destroyer, the master of dissolution, the one who dismantles illusion to reveal truth.
Here in Rishikesh, his presence is undeniable. The mighty Himalayas, standing in stillness, are said to be his home. The sacred Ganga, flowing with force and grace, is his adornment. It is no coincidence that Rishikesh is considered the “Land of the Rishis,” a gateway to divine wisdom and renunciation. Shiva is not just the god of destruction; he is the destroyer of ignorance, the one who dissolves the self’s attachment to illusion. In his dance—the tandava—he simultaneously annihilates and creates, reminding us that every ending is simply the beginning of something new.
As Maha Shivaratri approaches, I feel called to embrace my own inner Shiva nature. This sacred night, the “Great Night of Shiva,” is a time of deep contemplation, fasting, and devotion. It is believed that on this night, Shiva performs his cosmic dance, dissolving old energies to make space for higher consciousness. Devotees stay awake through the night, chanting his name, offering prayers, and immersing themselves in meditation—symbolizing the awakening of inner awareness. It is a night to surrender illusions, to strip away everything that is not truth.
I feel this invitation within me—to sit in stillness, to dissolve my own perceptions of what should be, and to embrace what is. The work of Shiva is not destruction for the sake of chaos, but dissolution for the sake of clarity. He must dismantle what was and what will be, so that we can fully awaken to what is. And so, in the spirit of Shivaratri, I surrender. To the discomfort. To the unknown. To the unfolding.
A Journey Into Thai Massage & the Unfolding of Doubt
Today marked the beginning of my six-week training to become a certified Thai massage master—more than just learning a technique, I would eventually be able to certify others in it as well. It’s a powerful commitment, yet even up until the very last moment, I questioned whether I was making the right decision. The doubts had been relentless: carpal tunnel in my hands, borderline heat stroke just days ago, food not digesting properly, rashes, emotional overwhelm, and one obstacle after another. But despite all of that, I had made it. I arrived. And I reminded myself: I am divinely led. I am here for a reason. I have work to do.
Of course, no great adventure begins without resistance. I woke up in my relatively quiet room only to realize it had no natural daylight. It was small, which I could handle, but the absence of light was unsettling. There was a narrow balcony, but instead of offering an open view, it was blocked by a tall wall that made the space feel even more confined. Immediately, memories of my time at Govardhan Eco Village resurfaced—where living in near darkness affected me far more than I had anticipated. I knew this could become an issue, but I decided to leave it to God and go about my day.
Stepping outside, I re-immersed myself in the familiar chaos of Rishikesh: the symphony of honking cars, cows meandering freely, and monkeys leaping from rooftop to rooftop. A divine madness, perfectly orchestrated. That afternoon, we had our first session—an initiation into the training that included dancing blindfolded and partner exercises meant to deepen our connection to ourselves and each other. The group was diverse, about 20 people from all over the world, with a heavy Russian presence that required a translator for many of the instructions. It was clear from the beginning that our lead teacher, Swami, was a strong personality—intense, eccentric, and undoubtedly knowledgeable.
Despite the welcoming exercises, I felt like an outsider. Something about the space didn’t feel fully aligned, but I ignored it. When we moved into our first partner practice, I was paired with a girl from Romania. As she worked on me, she intuitively touched places where I had stored deep pain—places I had never spoken about. She looked at me and said, “It’s okay to let go. You’ve been holding onto this pain for too long.” I stared at her, taken aback. How did she know? She smiled softly, as if the answer was simple. We are all connected. The walls I had unconsciously built around my emotions cracked, and I let the tears fall.
The following day was a much-needed shift into solitude and reflection. I spent the morning sitting by the Ganga, writing poetry, and bathing in her sacred waters. It was impossible not to reflect on my first time entering the river with Hadeer at the International Yoga Festival the year before—a memory that had carved itself into my soul. Now, almost exactly a year later, I walked the same streets feeling different. More confident, more grounded, yet still navigating the same undercurrents of uncertainty. I knew the land better, but I still felt lost within myself.
That morning, I wrote a poem called Mother’s Blessing, expanding on lines I had started in my final days in Bali. Sitting by the river, the words flowed through me effortlessly, as if Ganga herself was whispering them into my heart.
When it came time for massage practice, receiving felt nice—but giving was painful. By the end of the second day, I couldn’t feel my left leg. The sciatic nerve pain was so intense that my entire lower body felt like it was shutting down. My wrists and fingers ached, sending sharp reminders of the carpal tunnel that had already made me question this path. The doubts that I had shoved aside resurfaced: Is this really for me? Am I forcing something that isn’t meant to be?
That night, exhausted and desperate for some sense of relief, I crossed the bridge to Tapovan to meet up with Mikey and Jose—friends from my time at Govardhan Eco Village. A kirtan festival was happening, and the journey there was a familiar dance of navigating Rishikesh: walking on foot, crossing the bridge, catching a tuk-tuk, and then walking again. By the time I arrived, the energy of Hare Krishna’s sacred names washed over me like a long-awaited exhale. The moment I stepped into the kirtan hall, I felt my entire body soften.
The space was packed, buzzing with an energy I hadn’t fully anticipated. I guess I had underestimated how many young Westerners were immersed in Bhakti yoga. After all these years of being in this world, it still amazes me to see just how many others are on this path. We sat together over prasad, catching up on our journeys. Mikey shared stories from his recent pilgrimage through India with Ragu, and Jose spoke about his continued travels. Mikey was leaving for New York the next day, and it was beautiful to witness how much he had changed since I met him at the eco-village. His heart was full. He radiated devotion. Seeing the transformation in others is one of the most beautiful aspects of this path—it reminds me that we are all evolving, we are all shedding, we are all connected.
By the time I left Tapovan and made my way back across the river, it was after 11 PM. I was completely exhausted. I didn’t get into bed until close to 1 AM, and as I closed my eyes, a familiar thought lingered in my mind:
I don’t know how I’m going to make it through another day of massage training
Shivaratri: The Dance of Destruction and Surrender
As Maha Shivaratri approached, I felt its call—not just as an event, but as an invitation to surrender. The “Great Night of Shiva” is a night of dissolution, transformation, and awakening—a time when devotees stay awake in vigil, chanting and fasting, as Shiva is said to perform his cosmic dance of destruction and renewal. It is a night of unshackling—of letting go of illusions, of surrendering attachments to what no longer serves. This year, its arrival felt synchronistic, mirroring the very themes unraveling within me: the destruction of my plans, the breaking down of my body, the dismantling of my expectations.
That morning, class focused on receiving rather than giving, and I found myself on the mat, experiencing bodywork from one of the instructors. For the first time since arriving, I felt relief—a brief reprieve from the relentless pain that had been screaming through my body. Yet as I lay there, a realization surfaced: I could not physically sustain giving this type of massage. Receiving was one thing, but forcing my body to endure more pain in order to complete this training was another. The truth was beginning to emerge, but I wasn’t quite ready to sit with it. Not yet.
After lunch, I made my way down to the Ganga for my daily dip. But in honor of Shivaratri, I added something extra—a moving meditation, blending yoga, tai chi, and dance along the river’s edge. I set up a timelapse to capture the moment (click picture to see), and midway through, I was approached by a group of Indian girls who excitedly asked for a selfie. A common occurrence in India, where foreigners are often seen as a novelty.
It struck me how different this Shivaratri felt from last year’s. Just one year ago, I had spent it crushed in a sea of people at Parmarth Niketan Aarti, barely able to move, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the crowd. It had been my second day in Rishikesh, a whirlwind of overstimulation. This time, I moved through the day with more ease, more self-awareness, and yet, the presence of Shiva was just as tangible. The massive Shiva statue on the riverbank loomed over the sacred waters, its energy pulsing through the city. I felt his presence lingering in the air, the weight of his stillness, the inevitability of his destruction.
That afternoon, in class, I was paired with one of the assistants for a massage exercise. But as I worked on him, something became glaringly obvious. By trying to make someone else feel good, I was actively harming myself. My body resisted every movement, and the pain was undeniable. I was forcing something that wasn’t meant for me.
The imbalance—giving to depletion, ignoring my own suffering, trying to push through instead of surrendering—was a lesson I had met time and time again. And yet, here I was, facing it once more.
As the sun began to set, I met Maia, a girl from Serbia who had just arrived that day. Another Maia/Maya in my life—Shiva’s divine illusion manifesting yet again. She asked if I wanted to do something for Shivaratri.
I hesitated. I had planned to attend an event Jose had sent me details for. I was exhausted, hadn’t eaten all day, and every part of me wanted to crawl into bed and disappear. But something nudged me to say yes.
So, we set off—on foot, over Ram Jhula Bridge, then into a tuk-tuk to Tapovan.
Lessons in Loss: The Karmic Dance of Giving and Receiving
As we rode in the tuk-tuk, I rifled through my bag, looking for money—and realized I was 500 rupees short.
I sighed, frustration welling up. Money must have flown out of my bag in the tuk-tuk. It was only about $5 USD, but the principle of it stung. I was already stressed about finances, overwhelmed, and exhausted, and this carelessness felt like another unnecessary loss.
Then, I remembered something an Indian man had told me the last time I was in Rishikesh.
“Sometimes, in our past lives, we owe karmic debts. When we lose money unexpectedly, when we get ripped off, it’s not bad luck—it’s simply repayment. It’s energy balancing itself.”
I took a deep breath. Maybe someone who truly needed it would find it. Maybe it was never mine to keep.
We continued walking, ascending steep inclines toward our destination. With each step, my sciatic nerve screamed in protest. My entire left leg was numb, throbbing, a brutal reminder that my body was not okay. Then, as if the universe was doubling down on its sense of humor—I stepped in cow shit.
A fitting initiation for the night’s unfolding.
By the time we arrived, the “celebration” was nearly empty. There was no sacred gathering, no electric energy, no grand invocation of Shiva’s presence. I was tired, hungry, and in pain, and I immediately regretted coming. But I didn’t want to abandon Maia, so I stayed.
She mentioned she was staying at Devi Music Ashram, and they were having a performance later that night. My ears perked up—I had actually looked into the ashram before, drawn to their music lessons, so if nothing else, I’d get to see the space.
When we arrived, the performance was simple, stripped down. A woman with a hauntingly beautiful voice droned softly over the harmonium, accompanied by a man playing a mystical flute.
No elaborate band.
No layered instrumentation.
Just raw sound. Pure vibration.
And yet, something in me longed for more. My heart craved the immersive, intoxicating energy of full kirtan—the kind that pulls you out of your body, the kind that dissolves you into sound. The night before, at Kirtan Fest, I had felt that expansion, the saxophone weaving through mantra, lifting me into something beyond myself.
But here? Here, everything felt small. Underwhelming.
And maybe that was Shiva’s lesson.
Because Shiva doesn’t work through grand displays or indulgent experiences.
Shiva strips you bare.
Shiva breaks you down.
Shiva reminds you that expectations are illusions.
Maybe the disappointment, the discomfort, the exhaustion—maybe this was the initiation.
A test of surrender.
A reminder that this night isn’t about what you receive.
It’s about what you’re willing to let go of.
Shiva’s Final Lesson: Destruction as a Gift
By the time I left Tapovan, making my way back across the bridge, it was nearly midnight. My body ached. My spirit felt depleted. This wasn’t the Shivaratri I had envisioned.
But maybe it was the Shivaratri I needed.
Because Shiva doesn’t give easy initiations.
He asks us to sit in the discomfort. To surrender to destruction. To trust the dissolution, even when it feels like everything is falling apart.
And as I crawled into bed that night, I realized:
Maybe I was never meant to complete this massage training.
Maybe I was never meant to stay in India for long.
Maybe I was never meant to cling to what wasn’t working.
Because the work of Shiva is not to give you what you want.
It is to strip you of what you don’t need.
And so, I surrender.
To discomfort.
To the unknown.
To the unfolding.
Because in the wake of destruction, there is always space for something new
With complete dissolution,
Kali Grayce
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