Maha Shivaratri

A steamy, spiritual excerpt from my upcoming book to honor this sacred New Moon.

Dear Reader:

The following chapter is a spiritual travel tale from my upcoming Bindi Girl 2: Surrendering to the Soul of India. It is from the Great Night of Shiva, occurring annually on the New Moon of Pisces. Celebrating Shivaratri is a beautiful way to cultivate peace within and without, by honoring the god of Consciousness as form and formlessness. This piece was written fourteen years ago during my stay in Konkan Coast region of Karnataka, south India.

Maha Shivaratri is an annual festival dedicated to Lord Shiva. It is believed that Lord Shiva was married to the Goddess Parvati (Shakti) on this day. The word ratri means night, or resting time. Hence, it is popularly known as ‘Shivaratri’ or the ‘Great Night of Shiva’ and marks the convergence of Shiva with Shakti.

And now, please enjoy this excerpt from my new book. May it ignite your soul in some small yet significant fashion. Happiest of New Moons to you.

Om Namah Shivaya.

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Maha Shivaratri

Excerpt from Bindi Girl 2: Surrendering to the Soul of India

Woman pilgrim

Sacred

Going for it

Doing her thing.

Pious

People

Prostrating.

Like a womb

Sticking it in

Full-handed

Blessed milk

Yoni.

Lingam come from meteorite.

Lights go out.

Throngs stay cool

Dripping, drenched with sweat

Smash glass bangle on metal cordon.

Old man limps out

His last Shivaratri.

You don't want anyone to panic

As you see The Times of India headlines:

"135 People Die of Suffocation Trapped in Lingam Temple"

Keep it cool.

Keep it way cool.

Oh my.

How can one possibly convey the magic, the mystery of Maha Shivaratri?

A few years prior, during this same annual mela (festival) honoring Lord Shiva, I found myself in Tiruvannamalai, Tamil Nadu. Barefoot, alongside tens of thousands of other pilgrims, I circumnavigated the fourteen-kilometer (over eight miles) base of the sacred mountain of Arunachala, considered a manifestation of the god Shiva in the form of fire. A peak experience, to be sure.

And now, at this year’s Maha Shivaratri, I am fortunate to be back in my favorite holy pilgrimage home of the south Indian Mahabaleshwar Temple, which houses and protects the sacred Atma Lingam.

It was a wild night, filled with serendipity, passion, heat, and luck…

Somehow, a male friend and I are allowed into the “Indians Only” area of the main temple at the climax of the evening. All night long, pilgrims chant their hearts and minds out in the corridors of the temple, prostrating, praying, perched on the ground, bare feet in the earth.

“Namah Shivaya! Namah Shivaya! Hara Hara Namah Shivaya!" People are dripping sweat, half-intoxicated, driven by their own love of God.

Since it is the middle of the night, there is no real queue to speak of, but inside the power spot, the ten-by-ten-foot epicenter of the temple, it is packed. Like sweaty sardines. Nowhere to move.

The men are ordered to remove their shirts, as temperatures are well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit in the tiny cave housing the yoni (representing the female, Shakti) and lingam (male, Shiva).

Droning, chanting, piles upon piles of flowers are offered. People are swaying with the heat, in a variety of altered states. Bodies are rubbing against each other—no choice but close contact. The entry is only two feet wide, with space for a dozen inside the cave. Sweat rolls down our faces, our bodies. The women's saris are soaked, black kohl drips from their eyes.

The yoni. The Goddess herself. A cauldron-shaped, volcanic, black hole in the temple floor. No wider than six to eight inches in diameter leading down into the center of the earth. Men and women frenetically push each other aside, thrusting their flower-bearing fists with abandon and aggression—make that passion—directly into the round womb of the yoni.

Every half-minute or so, the Brahmin priests pour holy water, milk, and blossoms over the hands of the pilgrims, drenching the yoni, cleansing her, blessing her, praising her for life-bearing gifts, and thereby honoring the lord, Her Lord, Shiva.

It is Shiva's big night, but the activity here is undeniably Shakti.

For without Shakti, there is no Shiva.

For without Shiva, there is no Shakti.

Such is the nature of duality, of existence. The manifestation of consciousness.

An endless dance. Life, death. Destruction, creation. Give it and take it away.

Without thinking, I join the others and shove, grunt, push, force my way into the fray. I've got a few bilva leaves (sacred to Shiva) in my clutch, and an orange marigold blossom brought from the nearby Ganesha temple. Without thinking, I thrust my own flower-bearing hand in and out of the yoni, simultaneously with the Indians, chanting, feeling, offering, praying, thanking, and experiencing.

Pulling back, somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought makes a tiny appearance: I am a foreigner; perhaps they don't want my pale hands performing such sacred acts on this most sacred night. But the thought leaves just as quickly as it enters. I am not some gawker, judger, scoffer passing through on this blessed Maha Shivaratri. I belong here. This is me. No matter the color of my skin, the timbre of my voice, the seal on my passport. This is my archetypal journey, too. My personal passion. It is what speaks to me, gets me going. It's what moves me, gets the heart palpitating recklessly, intoxicates me with the state of being outrageously alive.

The headiness intensifies as we attempt to make our exit. An ancient, stooped Indian, hobbling with a cane, has gotten stuck in the dwarfish portal. He is struggling to escape, bathed in perspiration, and caught in the cramped doorway while an eager line of pilgrims attempts to push past him in the opposite direction. It's deadlock. No one is moving, in or out. Sweat is pouring, heat is rising.

My companion places his hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “Don't panic. It will be okay."

I'm cool with it, but we're both concerned about the crowd. Keep breathing, people. If someone freaks out, if someone has claustrophobia, if someone panics in either direction, we're done for. Instinctively, I drop into a momentary meditation, watching my breath—staying calm and waiting for the old man to extricate himself from his bondage in the passageway.

Poof! Power goes out suddenly.

Pitch dark! Fade to black.

Instantaneously, my left hand jerks, grasping for support. The sweaty hand slips, banging on the metal banister. One of my twelve glass bangles—green in color, purchased in honor of Shivaratri that very afternoon—shatters on the railing. In the blackness, I hear it fall—tinkle, tinkle—to the temple floor. I feel a sense of connection to the multitudes of women who have passed this way, as I can't bend over, can hardly move at all, and have no choice but to leave this tiny piece of me behind.

Exhale. The lights have come back on, the guards have helped the old man out of the corridor, and the passage is clear once again. Exodus.

The throngs are moving again. Oozing, throbbing, pulsing—a river of raw humanity, we plunge outside into the darkness of night.

We are resurrected.

Borne from blackness, we emerge.

From the collective womb of creation.

From the void, we enter the world again.

Vibrant, individual expressions of consciousness.

This Great and Holy Night of Shiva, this Maha Shivaratri. How could I be filled with anything but gratitude, awe, and wonder?

Om Namah Shivaya

Shivaya namaha

Shivaya namah om

Shiya namaha, namaha Shivaya

Shambhu Shankara namah Shivaya

Girijaa Shankara namah Shivaya

Arunachala Shiva namah Shivaya

Translation: I bow to the Soul of all. I bow to my Self. I don't know who I am, so I bow to you, Shiva, my own true Self. I bow to my teachers who loved me with Love, who took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. I owe everything to them. How can I repay them? They have everything in the world. Only my love is mine to give, but in giving, I find that it is their love flowing through me back to the world. I have nothing. I have everything. I want nothing.

Only let it flow to you, my love... sing!

Dancing tandava with Shiva in Rishikesh (2018)

Erin Reese, M.S. is a writer, artist, and spiritual teacher. Her foci include embodied awakening, the Divine Feminine, cosmic consciousness, and nondual wisdom. She is the author of the Soul of India trilogy including the memoir Truth Seeker: A Spiritual Adventure of Love, Loss, and Liberation. Visit erinreese.com for more information.