The Fire and the Flow
February 13, 2025
Another late morning, another upset belly.
I woke up feeling compulsive—reaching for my phone before my breath had even settled. With ten days until my flight to Rishikesh, I debated canceling my internal flight from Delhi to Dehradun. The baggage restrictions worried me, especially with my harmonium. Would the extra baggage fees outweigh the cost of a taxi from Delhi to Rishikesh? I spiraled in indecision.
Then, I checked flights from Delhi to Bali for after my Thai massage training. I had been tracking them all week, and suddenly, the return flights were nearly $70 more expensive. A familiar wave of panic gripped me. If only I had booked sooner. The thought looped in my mind, a relentless self-judgment. But the decision had already been made. I scrambled, applied a promo code, used all my points, and locked in the flights from April 6 to June 2. It was still more money than I had anticipated, but I am powerless over this now.
I braced myself for my mom’s reaction, but she wasn’t upset. If she wasn’t, maybe I didn’t need to be either. There would be more logistics to figure out—how to get from Delhi to Mumbai in June, when to book my flight back to New York—but for now, I had done what I could.
The Release
At 11 AM, I had a massage, the kind of touch that dissolves stored tension from the past 36 hours—and maybe more. Every muscle that had clenched in stress began to soften under skilled hands. I realized how dehydrated I was from crying. Maybe that was contributing to my body’s aches, too.
Afterward, I returned to my room for a shower and lunch. The food didn’t excite me today, or maybe I was just too emotionally drained to enjoy it. I spent the afternoon resting, still processing the previous day’s emotional intensity.
I had promised myself I would attend meditation that evening—no matter what. Before heading over, I reflected on what Anita had said the day before:
“There are no mistakes. No good or bad. No right or wrong. Only duality, and the decisions you make with the card you draw.”
That truth settled into my bones as I made my way to the meditation hall. The heat pressed against my skin, an almost unbearable weight. I hadn’t packed well for this climate. I had bought new pieces before leaving—Lululemon shorts, a hybrid skirt—but as soon as I tried them on, I doubted my choices. Were they too small? Was my body changing? The spiraling thoughts crept in.
But then the candle was lit.
The Flame & The Magician
Nina led a tantric meditation—a candle-gazing practice. We were all given candles and they
were cleverly placed on wooden blocks just within eyesight. Nena instructed us to stare just below the flame, focusing on our third eye, setting an intention—not just for ourselves, but for every being. I have done this practice before, but its been a while.
At first, the heat was overwhelming, sweat pooling under my shirt. Then, as I locked in with the flame, everything else quieted. I didn’t forget my struggles, but they loosened their grip. There was something about the flame—something bigger than my body, bigger than the heat, bigger than my pain. For the first time in a long time, I simply was. When the meditation ended, I laid down, eyes closed, surrendering. I may have even nodded off. Others had, too. The stillness, the release—it was a gift.
Returning to Tantra: The Illusion and the Awakening
Something has been calling me back to Tantra—not the Westernized version that reduces it to sensuality, but the true essence of Tantra: presence, surrender, the dance between form and formlessness. Tantra isn’t about indulgence or restraint; it’s about embracing the paradox, the weaving of the sacred and the mundane, the seen and unseen. The flame of Trataka meditation reawakened something in me—the ability to gaze deeply, to sit with intensity without flinching. It reminded me that Tantra is about learning to see beyond illusion, beyond the conditioned stories I tell myself, and into the raw, unfiltered reality of the present moment.
This theme of illusion has been threading through my mind, finding its way into the poem I’ve been writing—a two part reflection on Tantric illusion/ Tantric Delusion and the way we become entranced by maya, the great cosmic play. The way we chase projections, attach meaning to passing shadows, mistake the flicker of a candle for the eternal light within. The poem speaks to the moments when I have lost myself in illusion, in longing, in desire—not just for people or things, but for an idealized self, an unattainable perfection that has kept me bound. And yet, just as the lotus rises from the mud, Tantra reminds me that liberation isn’t found in escaping illusion, but in seeing through it—in recognizing that even the illusion itself is divine. (See previous post for Tantric Illusion and Tantric Delusion poems)
From Flow to Fire: Yoga, Cooking, and the Art of Softening
After meditation, I found myself in an unexpected rhythm—a flow that carried me through the evening. It started in the yoga shala, as the sun hung low in the sky, slipping gold through the trees.
I had been craving this: my own practice, my own breath, my own way of moving.
With everything I’ve been experiencing—new places, new people, new emotions—it had been easy to forget how much I need this. The space. The time. The return to my body, to my mat, to the one thing that has always anchored me, even when everything else felt untethered.
I put my phone on time-lapse, not for anyone else, but as a quiet documentation of this moment—this reconnection. I moved slowly, intentionally. My wrist still ached, my neck still held tension, but I listened. I backed off when I needed to. I softened. The sun filtered through the shala as I melted into my last poses, breath slowing, body thanking me. There was no rush. No need to prove anything.
Afterward, I went straight to the cooking class. My energy was still wrapped in the slowness of practice, but I didn’t want to miss this. The chefs here have been so accommodating, making sure I have enough veggies, enough fruit, enough of what I need. I wanted to witness the process, to see how the meals I had been eating were actually prepared.
Each of us focused on one dish, all variations of a Balinese specialty—something deeply tied to this land. I worked with tempeh and tofu, something I’ve come to love here. Though, of course, my mind immediately questioned it—was it too high in calories? Too much? Was I eating too much of everything?
I caught myself. This was not the moment for that. This was about learning, about presence, about allowing myself to simply be with food, not in battle with it.
We started with spices and herbs—turmeric, ginger, shallots, lots of garlic (thank God), coriander. Everything had to be cut by hand before going into the giant mortar and pestle, where we would grind them into a paste. I picked up the knife and immediately felt the sharp ache in my wrist. Oh no.
The pain had been building all day, between harmonium, yoga, and the endless doom-scrolling posture that had kept my wrist at an awkward angle. As soon as I started chopping, I knew—this wasn’t good.
And yet, this isn’t just about my wrist. This is about my work, my purpose. I have my vegan chef certification coming up. I have Thai massage training right after that. My hands are my tools, and suddenly, I was faced with the fear: What if my body won’t let me do what I need to do? Instead of panicking, I tried to sit with the moment.
This is the card I’ve been dealt right now. So how do I play it? How do I work with it, not against it?
I adjusted, did what I could, and focused on the scent of the spices as they were crushed into a paste—the smell rich, deep, alive. Once it was done, we simmered everything down into a sauce. I had assumed it was something heavy, something creamy, but it wasn’t—it was simple, pure, elemental.
By the time dinner was ready, I knew I couldn’t sit upstairs with everyone. The meditation, the cooking—it had been enough for one evening. I needed quiet, so I had my meal brought downstairs to my room. And honestly? It was the best meal I’ve had yet. The flavors were perfect, the vegetables exactly as I had asked—no heavy sauce, no unnecessary additions, just food in its purest, most nourishing form.
As I ate, I had one of those moments where gratitude floods in all at once.
If I had left early, I wouldn’t have had this meal.
If I had let the pain in my wrist ruin my night, I wouldn’t have gotten to experience the class.
If I had stayed locked in fear about food, I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what I was eating.
Maybe this is what the Magician was teaching me. That I can shift perspective. That I can alchemize frustration into acceptance. That I can choose gratitude instead of dwelling in lack.
By the time I crawled into bed, I felt full—not just from food (and fruit, but from experience. From remembering what it feels like to move, to create, to taste, to surrender.
I didn’t scroll as much that night.
I played my harmonium instead.
I fell asleep without resistance.
And that, too, is a kind of magic.
With love and magic,
kali grayce aka the magician
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