#other one who’s essentially just wearing her skin … reconciling with the truth that if he was with her she would’ve lived … killing this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bidean-byedean · 3 years

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new piece on AO3

xvi. family

Day 16 of the SPN advent calendar (not festive)

You stop for the night.

Rated: G // Tags: second person POV, outsider POV, finale denialist, post-canon/canon divergent, bar owner Dean, everyone is alive and in love, domestic fluff // Ships: Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, Claire/Kaia // Word count: 5.6k

The bar is unassuming, gentle, welcoming. Tucked away but easy to find, if you’re looking. It’s still the midwest after all. Dean knows how much it looks like the old haunt; some of it deliberately mimicked, some of it inevitable features of the genre, some of it only became apparent in certain lights, like a ghostly apparition in a foggy bathroom mirror. These things that were hidden until Sam laid eyes on the place for the first time, or an old regular froze in the doorway, or after hours when Dean is cleaning up and swears he heard Jo’s soft giggle.

When this happens, he pauses. Braced against the reclaimed wood of the bar, desperately straining his ears into the nothingness, begging for one more note. It’s only when a warm hand settles on his shoulder, always his left, somehow always, that he realises what he’s doing. There’s only one place that his prayers echo out anymore and all they do is remind Cas of all the things that Dean has lost, of all the parts of Dean’s life that he did not know, that he cannot restore. But at least now the old Hunter does not flinch at his touch. His body relaxes into the large, steady hand; grounded, brought back to the present where Jo’s laughter is an eternal echo that makes it neither real nor unreal. If their lives had taught them anything, the distinction is arbitrary.

Cas helps him collect the last of the glasses, stacking them into long, precarious towers. Not as tall as the ones Dean makes; he’s not as easy in his body, not as used to being observed, and he hates the sound of shattering glass, hates the silence afterwards, hates that moment of momentum when the breaking is about to happen and is happening and has happened. For angels, it’s always about to happen and happening and happened. Or, it used to be like that. When and so it is written meant something. Before, when it was Castiel and Dean Winchester, not now, in the after, when it is Cas and Dean.

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here. It’s already ridiculous, considering the things you’ve heard. Only half of them can be true, mostly the half that you can reconcile with your understanding of the truth.

John Winchester’s boy? Haven’t you heard?

Haven’t you heard he has a face you’d pay twice the going rate for? Haven’t you heard he’ll take it? Haven’t you heard he’s the best Hunter of his age? Haven’t you heard he sold his soul? Haven’t you heard an angel brought him back? Haven’t you heard he lost it again? To John? To the devil? To God? Haven’t you heard he was the most feared monster in Purgatory? Haven’t you heard losing his soul was nothing compared to losing his brother, to losing his angel, to losing his angel again, and again, and again?

Haven’t you heard? They’re in love.

So you roll up to the door of the bar and it just looks like a bar because the warding is painted beneath the sign holding the name, and the devil’s trap is in the shadows of the ceiling, and hex bags are stowed inside of the cushions of the stools, and a silver rosary consecrated by softly sung blessings, murmured by the human mouth of an Angel, sits in the water tank. Even if you know, you do not know. But you feel safe here, that is the point, the commandment of the space; welcome and be welcomed. And maybe you sit at the bar, tired and alone and lonely, surrounded (for the first time?) by people with whom you can speak freely and you realise the weight of speaking in code, always hiding, bearing a burden that sears into your soul until you’re not sure you have one anymore. You hear they burn out, that you can use them up, and then what are you?

But tonight you’re safe behind the warding and in front of a bar with a surprisingly pretentious beer menu and burgers that come with avocado and the word seasonal in front of some of the offerings. But there are people you’re familiar with, even if you don’t know them, you know them. Their faces hold the same weariness, their clothes practical or incongruous by design, masks and costumes and performances, all finally relaxed. So relax.

Maybe you haven’t seen him since before John died, or before he went to Hell, or before he killed God(?), but that doesn’t matter. Maybe you read the books, enjoying being in the know, enjoying that you enjoy them differently from all the other people that enjoy them, for better reasons. Maybe his name is a myth passed from Hunter to Hunter, monster to monster, or between the two (is there a two? You try not to think about this too much). Older now, so much older than he could’ve ever hoped for. Masculine in every way you hope to be masculine, if you really understand what it means, but by hoping and understanding you fail. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and wears a flannel shirt over a band tshirt and dishtowel over his shoulder, and his jaw is sharp and hard and stubbled, and his eyes framed by deep crow’s feet; he sees you and you feel seen. His forearms are too tanned for the season, but you’re distracted by how they flex under the skin, and his hands are big and rest on the wood in front of you, just hands now, but they might as well be an armoury for all the death they’ve caused.

So, maybe you’re suddenly afraid because the things you didn’t want to be true? Suddenly reality has shifted and not only do they reconcile with the truth, they are immutable from it, it is more impossible that impossible things don’t happen to this man.

Then he smiles.

“What can I get ya?”

His voice is so low it’s like traffic from a highway just out of sight from your motel room, that when you lie in the dark becomes part of your body, as essential to your existence as the thudding of your heart and the huffing of your lungs and the buzzing from the dying lights in the walkway outside. It’s atomic. It’s celestial.

Wasn’t the other one supposed to be an angel?

You don’t know. You’re not used to having choices. Simple choices, selfish ones, luxurious ones: if you want fries or steak-cut chips, American or Swiss, IPA or stout or lager, light or dark, or spirits. It embarrasses you, how difficult it is, in the face of meaninglessness, how do you fare?

“Just a beer, man.”

“I gotcha,” he tips his chin understandingly and gets to work.

Probably gets this all the time, an understood consequence of stepping outside of the comfort zone. Your comfort zone, not his, you realise. This is his domain, his playground, his paradise on Earth, as was the promised bounty for fighting on humanity’s side in the war. The one no one else had to fight in because he did.

Did he still have the sword?

‘German pilsner.”

“It’s good.”

His smile seems genuine and so is your surprise.

“What you here for?”

You keep your eyes on his, if you blink, you’ll see it again. “Shifter. Of a sort.”

“Mmm.”

“Then home.”

That catches his interest. “Where’s home?”

“Iowa.”

Then he opens the ground beneath you: “Who’s home?”

“Whoever’s left.”

He grunts appreciatively, his gaze flickering over his shoulder. You notice the bands on his fingers. Silver, you assume pure, but it catches the light in a way that isn’t quite right, you stare at it. He twists it with his thumb, an unconscious habit, a soothing touch, a comfort. Even a Winchester needs comforts. It’s a comfort in of itself.

A young woman, her blonde hair half-braided and threaded with metal, slides over the top of the bar, her leather trousers giving her enough slip over the wood. Her heavy boots thud onto the ground and she grins manically at his frown.

“What have I told you about-“

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you too, old man.”

She kisses him on the cheek, he rolls his eyes, but leans into it, his mouth quirking upwards at the corners. Another woman appears, dark skinned and soft-eyed, she walked around the bar, civilised and grounded. The blonde throws her arm over her shoulders, you remember who they are: Claire and Kaia Nieves. The daughter of an Angel and a Dreamwalker. You heard they spared a family of werewolves on the West coast, you heard there’s a network for them, monsters who are not monstrous. You don’t like to think about what that means for you. The things you’ve done.

“Where is he?” He gestures to the back and they disappear. He looks after them, his face soft and open; you can’t imagine him torturing souls in Hell.

There are pockets of people throughout the bar: loners like you, pairs and trios quietly nursing their sustenance, groups crowding round tables, pulling chairs from elsewhere or standing when there are none free. They’re loud and joyful and free. Is it better to have a crowd? Is it enough to be adjacent? You’re not sure you have the energy to socialise, to make nice, maybe next time.

Someone enters and everyone’s heads turn, he’s called over to different tables, dropping by to say hello to everyone who calls his name: Sam fucking Winchester! He’s tall, made even taller by the short woman by his side, and their hands move animatedly as they talk, too precise, too many deliberate gestures to just be physicality. He watches her when she speaks, her voice is rounded and deliberate. Eileen Leahy. A Deaf Hunter. You remember someone telling you she was eaten by Hellhounds, dragged into the pit, and brought back by Sam, his magic, his love, willing to transcend the boundaries of life, upset the balance of the universe: all for her. You feel ashamed for wondering how she made it far enough to meet the Winchesters. It’s a fair question of any Hunter, the answer the same: in their own way. No one survives because they have all the makings of a Hunter, a preset list of requirements that they meet; you survive because you face the job with what you have and you do what you have to.

Dean salutes her playfully, she smiles so wide it looks like it hurts. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like that, the last time you felt pain that didn’t hurt. She sits at the bar and Sam sits next to her, towering and gentle. You remember him. The Boy King. No longer a boy, his throne abdicated. Does he really have demon blood coursing through his veins? Hell is closed up now, sometimes a demon pops up here and there, but not like before, when the world was full of them, when all you did was exorcise and pray and holy water became a currency and left most of the community ordained ministers from variously dubious sites of divine origin, consecrated ground became the last stronghold against the end of the world. The future placed in the hands of Sam Winchester. Now you know the face. You struggle to imagine the Devil in his eyes, not when you’ve seen true evil.

The Winchesters are not similar enough to be clocked as brothers. But there’s something in the tilt of their shoulders and their hazel green eyes and the cadence of their voices that suggests kinship, brotherhood, forged in the fires of Hell and gilded by the light of Heaven. They’re just men, you realise. Earthly and solid and real, no more myth than the one you beheaded just the other night, it’s blood as real as the blood that marks them Winchester. Just like anyone else.

“Isn’t Claire supposed to be helping out?”

Dean sighs. “She’s upstairs. Giving her a minute, she hasn’t been around in months.” You think he sounds upset. “Typical.”

“It’s a good thing, Dean,” Sam pushes. “Her and Kaia are doing a hundred times better than we would’ve.”

“We?” He snorts. “At their age you were smoking oregano with your bougie friends. I was actually saving people.”

Sam pulls a face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch,” he signs it big and deliberate, winking at Eileen. “Hey, want another?”

It takes a second for you to realise he’s talking to you, by then all three of them have their attention on you, openly appraising you. You wonder what they read in your posture, your face, the way you’ve ripped a paper napkin into tiny shreds.

“Any other recommendations?”

“Got a new dark in, like dessert in a glass.” He looks at Sam: “Finally found an apiarist to work with.”

“Apiarist?” You venture.

Dean looks towards the door that leads to the mysterious back. “Bee keeper. My-“ He pauses abruptly. “He likes bees.”

My. He.

Perhaps you don’t mean to, but you eyes flicker to the rainbow flag over the doorway. You notice more stuck in glasses on the shelves, some of them rainbow, some of the blue-purple-pink bands, some of them orange-white-pink. What is it like? You know what people say behind his back, what they’ve always said, the people in the know. The men who had paid for a moment with Dean Winchester, the men who had gotten one for free, the men who had hoped for either, for anything. They still call him names. If only John could see him now. John always knew he was a disappointment. Wouldn’t be like this if John were alive.

That doesn’t seem fair. You didn’t know John Winchester, most people didn’t. He died so long ago and Hunters have a quick turnaround, reblooded often, rarely more than a decade of history able to be told first-hand. Dean watches you and your eyes and you wonder what he’ll do, if you became a threat, how does he eliminate threats now? You shiver at the thought. You let wistfulness seep through. You try to convey the kinship. The I see me in you and you in me. The you fascinate me the same way a shadow does. The show me your throat and I’ll show you mine. The secret language you’ve learnt to speak. The other one. Hidden even beneath the Hunter’s code. The more forbidden one. The one of monsters like you. Like us.

It must work because he softens. He pours the dessert in a glass even though you didn’t order it and places it in front of you, next to the glass he places something small and shiny, he doesn’t wait for you to acknowledge it. It’s a metal pin. The silver knotted into a symbol you don’t know, impressively intricate for the size, and when you hold it, it feels unusually warm. You remember the way Dean’s ring caught the light, throwing it more than it should, almost giving off its own light, almost glowing. Whatever it is made of, this is its sibling. You pin it to your jacket, on the left lapel, the proximity to your heart neither deliberate nor indeliberate. It pleases him. You pleased him.

The drink is good, better than the last. Truthfully, you don’t like beer that much, but it’s easy and universal and unassuming. This isn’t beer, not in that way. It’s smooth and creamy and sweet, it rolls around on your tongue, asking to be tasted, not to be drunk. The honey has that sharpness of real, pure honey, the slight antiseptic burn you get from eating it straight from the jar. You remember eating honey from a jar, a chunk of comb suspended in the golden substance. You didn’t know it meant so much to you.

“Finally!”

“Get off my dick,” Claire bats back.

“Who the fuck taught you to be so rude?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no sense of upset between them. “What do you want with me?”

“Glasses.”

“Ughh, are you serious?”

“As a werepire.”

“There is no such thing as a werepire,” a new voice cuts in. It’s grumbling like Dean’s, somehow more gravelly; do they communicate in earthquakes? “Stop trying to make werepire happen.”

Castiel.

You gasp before you can stop yourself. An Angel of the Lord, walking on Earth, living above a bar instead of Heaven. He’s nothing that you expect. Tall and commanding, but different from Dean and Sam, the same, but somehow very not. His eyes are bright and intense, as blue as the deepest sky, the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, a blue that you never thought possible until right this second. You feel as if you should look away, as if seeing beneath a hair covering, something sacred and prized, something that is not for public consumption, only God’s eyes. Only Dean Winchester’s eyes. What is the difference now? Is this bar paradise? Where is the divinity in craft beer and crude hunters, clawing out a life on the edges of society, wading through the horror in the hope of retaining peace, but not for yourselves. Nothing is for yourself.

Except they have claimed each other. You heard Dean is branded, a scar of a handprint seared into his skin, a memento from when they met. They met in Hell. Castiel touched his soul and raised him from Hell and fell in love with him, literally fell. Who would love you if they had seen your soul? Seen the personal realm of Hell you curated? Can you even love yourself?

Doesn’t it leave you breathless?

And then the picture shifts. Castiel turns and you see a child, old enough to walk, but small enough to get away with demanding not to. It’s balanced on the Angel’s hip like it belongs there, like his body (is it his? Who did it belong to? Are they still there? Did they ask for this?) was made to hold it there. Dean ruffles their hair, their ambiguity is intriguing, refreshing for the Hunting community. Youth is a clean slate, you are never more full of options, full of potential, which slowly seeps from you as your choices narrow, as life demands decisions, assigns decisions, weighs you down with expectations and being perceived, an object for perception rather than existence.

You’ve heard about the child. A nephil. But no one knows the details. No one is brave enough to ask.

The child reaches for Dean and is pulled into his arms, plastered against his chest, small and content and belonging. You wonder what their life will be like. Will they be a Hunter? You doubt it, you doubt the doubt. How do you choose to bring life into this life? It’s too hard, too sad, too lonely, too destructive. Not even dandelions grow through the concrete paving of a Hunter’s solitude, of their broken soul and heart, tings you drag along behind you like a yoke, reminding you that you must keep going, that one day, you will not be able to keep going. The baggage. How do you inflict that on a child? When will this creature’s heart be torn out of its chest and put inside a box and chained shut, only to be your greatest weakness and source of strength?

Or will it be happy?

“You need to go to bed, buddy,” Dean says quietly, his voice so steeped in affection it makes your chest yearn. You can’t help being in earshot. That doesn’t make it right. “Want me? What’s wrong with your Dad?”

The child murmurs something silently.

“Okay. I got you,” his arms seem to tighten. “Cas? We’re going up.”

Cas. It rolls off of his tongue so easily, the repetition of a thousand, a million, making it more at home in his mouth than his own name. An Angel of the Lord called Cas because he stands on Earth, because he is not part of Heaven, because he is of Dean, not of God. He touches the child’s face gently, tenderly, motherly, and you ache for such simple, all-consuming affection, for someone to look at you with the reverence of worship at the altar of a god that speaks back. Castiel’s (because Cas is not for your mouth) hand runs down Dean’s arm, his fingers trailing, prolonging, and when it drops away, Dean leaves.

You’ve nearly finished your dessert in a glass without even realising, it’s good. Too good. You could drink it all night, but you shouldn’t. The list of shouldn’ts is getting too long. You can’t remember anything left that you can do, that doesn’t conflict with an imperative for self-restriction. Where do you have to be? Who is expecting you? What is your next move? Why are you even questioning it?

He notices you.

“Ah, Sweet Dreams. How did you like it?” He tilts his head, a little more than most people would, reminiscent of a puppy, of the velociraptors in that film, assessing your prey potential. You’re aware of his magnitude. You’re aware of your insignificance.

“Very smooth. Filling.”

“That is the problem, but Dean humours me.”

“With the bees?”

He nods seriously. “They’re dying at an alarming rate, you know.”

“I did.”

“Have you been here before?”

“First time.”

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“You look tired. Are you staying the night? We have rooms.”

“Uh-“

“That’s not a proposition,” he adds quickly. “Dean tells me that I sound like I’m hitting on people when I say that.”

You smile at his humanness. “I didn’t feel propositioned.” Would you like to? “I- I usually stay in my car, to be honest.”

His smile falters. “I wouldn’t advise that, it’s very uncomfortable and you’re much safer in here. The warding is some of my best work.”

“You never actually asked if I was a Hunter.” Hoping he’ll smite you?

He narrows his eyes playfully. “I didn’t have to. I know Hunters.”

“You must know everything.”

That catches him off guard. “Not as much as I used to.”

“What?”

Another head tilt. This one is more amused. “I guess news doesn’t travel as fast as you think. I am depowered,” he uses his fingers to make air quotes around the word. He laughs, but it’s a grating, sad sound. “Fallen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “So, a room?”

You somehow agree to stay. The rates are reasonable and the weather turned recently, so you know that even if you get some sleep in your car, it’ll be fraught and restless, and a warm bed in the safest place in the US is hard to turn down. You wonder if they’re both always this attentive or if its you, if you’re really that pathetic, if it rolls off of you like a stench, trails after you like blood, someone else, yours. You accept the insistence of kindness from the Angel, former, no, current; he says otherwise, but you see divinity in his eyes, in his smile, in the way that he touched Dean, in the way he held his child.

“Was-“ You swallow and finger the pin that Dean gave you. “Was that your kid?”

Castiel nods happily. “Jack.”

“And Claire?”

Castiel looks across the bar at Claire, laughing loudly and talking in big, dramatic gestures with a group of Hunters. “Yes.”

He doesn’t offer clarification. You feel stupid for wanting some. All of the impossible things you’ve seen, why do you care? Why do you need to know the details? Why does it matter that they are together? That they created a family? Do you think you can too? Do you think you’re as special as Winchester?

He leans on the bar. ‘Claire is my vessel’s daughter. I took her father from her.”

“That’s intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And Jack?”

“He-“ He pauses. “He chose me. You know how are nephil are.”

“Sure…”

“God, he is too good at that.” Dean interrupts loudly, pressing his face into the back of Castiel’s shoulder. “I always fall asleep putting him down.”

Castiel pats his head. “He’s spoilt.”

“Yeah, well, gotta make up for tryna shoot him, huh?” You and Castiel share a look. You do not ask for clarification. “You stayin’?” You nod. “Awesome. Another drink?”

The room spins gently around you, but you’re content to watch the show. It’s not one that would be on TV, but it should be, warm and carefree and soft, it’s the show of a family. They move around each other in a practiced dance; Sam and Eileen and Claire and Kaia and Castiel and Dean. So many of them. All alive. All in love. So much love. It’s hard not to watch Dean and Castiel, they’re captivating. Beautiful. You notice the magnetism, how they’re constantly touching, brushing, holding, pressing, it seems so easy, it would seem so easy if you weren’t watching, but you are, and you see how Dean watches the room, the way he look out before he does something deliberate, the way he pauses, the way he checks himself and checks himself checking himself. Dean tells a joke you don’t catch. Castiel responds by kissing him. You feel like you shouldn’t be watching. Your heart won’t let you look away. They talk an inch from each other’s faces. You wonder what it feels like to love someone like that.

Once you save the world, you can have it too.

God, you’re so tired, it’s a tired that sinks you into the ground, that makes you blood slow and your heart sticky and blinking a dangerous game. You want to see the end of the episode though. You don’t want to miss a moment.

Thud.

“Game over kiddo,” Claire comments when you sit up suddenly. “Past your bedtime.”

“I’m older than you,” you say, or slur, or think.

She laughs. “Sure. You got a room? I’ll show you up.” She frowns. “That’s not a proposition.”

You laugh. “Like father, like daughter.”

Her eyes slide over to the pair. “In all the ways that matter.”

The room is small and cosy: a double bed and thick duvet, a jug of water on the dresser, a small plate with cookies on it.

“Dean makes them,” Claire says as she watches you examine the room. “Don’t tell him I told you, if you remember that is.”

“Not tha’ drunk,” you protest, but the world spins when you close your eyes.

“Uh-huh. If you need anything just, uh, deal with it? This isn’t the Hilton. My D- Dean gets up pretty early, but if you wanna get away there’s like a key box and stuff. Night.”

The door clicks closed and you’re left alone. Your head feels fuzzy and full and empty at the same time, and you wonder how you got here. You wonder it a lot. Every time you’re searching for a hunt, driving to one, checking your weapons, reading the lore, tracking down a creature that has no right to exist.

That has no right not to exist.

For the first time in… well, you can’t even think about it, you sleep well. As soon as you crawl into bed, curled under the heavy duvet, surrounded by warmth and softenss, it creeps into your brain and takes away the tension from your body. You don’t even think to check the room for warding or make an escape plan, the assurance of safety here is like the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow, to doubt it seems like an insult to you and the universe. Maybe there is gentleness in the hunting life, a tender hand of comfort and understanding that will offer quiet and healing and rest, between the blood and guts and bones and death. Life.

You have dreams you don’t understand, but they don’t scare you. Nothing hunts you in the dark corners of your mind, you are not lost, you are not running, you are safe. Bathed in blue-white light that feels like sunshine and makes your lips tingle. It’s pure and divine and you do not feel worthy, but the feeling does not last, the self-loathing is soothed, washed away like a baptism of permission to see the way you try, how hard you fight, how hard you live.

Like any seasoned Hunter, the dawn brings consciousness, even though you definitely haven’t had enough sleep, yet you feel rested. More rested than you have in years. The ache in your bones that keeps you awake too late and forces you from shitty motel beds too early seems like a distant memory, one from a life you’re not sure you actually lived, like a reoccurring dream that permeates you waking days, but the relief, that’s real. Like the shower you take, the water almost too hot, the water pressure almost too hard, but it purifies you in a way that you thought was no longer possible, not after the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen.

Packed and ready to go, you linger by the door, wondering, briefly, what the rush is. Why do you need to leave today? What is really waiting for you at the other end?

But this is not home. (Nowhere is home.)

Being in a bar in the morning feels wrong, the grey light filtering into the room that’s already too lit, too exposed. Somehow it feels inviting though. A couple of people are already in the room, sipping out of big mugs with plates piled with toast and pastries and even cooked food. Who’s the chef here?

“Mornin’! How’s your head?” Dean grins brightly from behind the bar. He’s wearing a stained apron that says lord of the pies and the way he looks at you makes the floor feel soft underfoot, so you forget that he actually asked you a question.

“No complaints yet,” you quip, daring to make a reference that exposes you both. Your fingers find the pin on your jacket, still oddly warm, already a comfort.

He allows a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee, please, lots.”

“You’re speaking my language.” The coffee smells good, expensive, something that you would pay $7 dollars for because you know what you’re really buying is the chance to sit somewhere beautiful and put together when you are anything but. “Milks and sugar just there.”

Although it feels like sacrilege, you forgo the pancakes he tries to convince you on; you’ve never had much of a stomach in the mornings, but especially not this early, after drinking, with such a long drive ahead. You’ll regret not eating in a few hours, but you’ve never been kind to your future self, why start now? You watch and sip your coffee and let the day seep into your brain, acknowledging that you have to live today, get on with it all. Again.

Three cups in and it’s time to go. You were hoping to see Castiel again, but he hasn’t appeared. Disembodied hands produced Jack through the doorway, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to, maybe Castiel, maybe Claire. The toddler is more awake, he follows Dean around behind the bar, babbling nonsense that Dean replies to in a gentle, but grown up tone, always acknowledging his sentences, even when there’s no real answer to give. He’s a father. Embarrassingly you imagine him as the father of your children, however that would happen doesn’t matter, it’s a fantasy. A fantasy of security and domesticity. The only knives that Dean Winchester yields now are the ones in his kitchen; the only flesh he cuts through is whatever is on the menu, already slayed and butchered; the only fights he has are bickering with his family.

Family.

Your family is somewhere, out there, maybe where you left them, what’s left of them. Dean picks Jack up and they dance to the song on the radio, some sugary pop song that makes Jack laugh in that infectious toddler way and you get to witness the Dean Winchester sing all the words, perfectly. This isn’t the Dean that ruled Hell or Purgatory or Earth, that was the Hunter and the bow, the sword to Castiel’s shield, that fought the Devil and God and the every other cosmic entity. Could this Dean Winchester have saved the world?

But maybe this isn’t his weakness. If you do not have a soft underbelly then why do you need to have claws? If you do not have a reason to fight then what drives you to win? Dean bares his throat to the world to show it that he has something to protect, and that is what makes him so dangerous. What do you have? Where is the kink in your armour? What are you fighting for?

The bar disappears into the distance, shrinking in your rearview mirror the way a dream slips through your memory like water between your fingers as consciousness takes over. The roads are all the same, the towns are all the same, but you are not. The dread in the pit of your stomach is no longer a knife holding you hostage, but a knot attached to a rope, pulling you back, anchoring you. For all the time spent fighting it, the magnetic pull to a place you felt you could no longer love, people you could no longer have if you wanted to survive. They are what convinces you to survive. You think about the way Dean and Castiel looked at each other when the other wasn’t watching, you thinking about the way Sam never stopped smiling when Eileen spoke, you think about how Claire became a teenager again in Castiel’s arms.

On the second ring, your phone connects.

“I’m on my way.”

#personal #my fic #fanfic #spn fanfic #ao3 #destiel #saileen #2nd person pov #something a bit different #this definitely had a life of its own #bar owner!Dean #post canon spn #15x20 who?#outsider pov #domestic fluff #spn advent calender 2020 #yes I am using the prompts from this lol

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theautumnarchive · 6 years

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Wish You Were Here

I keep trying to collect my thoughts to put together that reflective post I intended to write on my anniversary, but I’m finding it difficult to construct clear points, even just for myself.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that many of the issues I’m struggling with boil down to a very frustrating truth: I miss myself.

It’s frustrating because I am currently me, as I always am and have been, so how can I miss myself? But that’s what’s happening. At my core, I’m the same person. It’s a big theme in trans discourse and the Big Conversations with friends and family when coming out - being trans doesn’t make you a different person than they thought you were, it just makes you a more genuine version of yourself. And that is true. However, what I’m finding out is that, in a more existential way, I have unintentionally separated myself into two distinct Selves in my own head.

Let me give the most direct example, as this is what made me realize that missing myself was what was actually happening. When I think about old stories and memories from my life, I see those things as events that happened to me, both then and as I am currently. However, when I tell an old story to someone who didn’t know me then, I find that the story does not convey the same message.

Plainly put, consider that a memory from my wedding day is just that - an anecdote from a comically terrible day - and anyone who was at my wedding will chuckle at the embarrassing antics of my in-laws (my brother-in-law fainting, my mother-in-law burning her mustache off trying to wax it and yelling at my much fairer-skinned bridesmaids for not having foundation she could use to cover the burn, my father-in-law just straight up not showing up like the dirtbag he is) and the ridiculous weather (107 in Kansas in September, really??) and the stupid amount of pie and chairs versus the number of people who bothered to actually attend (about 1/2 of those who rsvp’ed) and everything else. However, if I tell those same stories to someone who met me after I came out, they focus on different elements (i.e. “wait, you had a wedding dress?”) or I have to preface by saying “by the way, I’m trans and this was before.”

In that sense, the difference between my two identities manifests itself. It’s incredibly frustrating. That shit wedding happened to me. That’s my story. But, at the same time, I have to modify or add information to share it with people now. It comes across like I’m telling stories about another person, even though I’m not, and it makes me incredibly irritated and, honestly, it hurts to feel like I’ve lost that.

Autumn went through so much, both good and bad, and I am nothing without her struggles, sacrifices, and accomplishments. I earned those battle scars and accolades with my hard word, perseverance, intelligence, and determination. That girl is not some lost twin, she’s me.

I don’t look back at old pictures and see them as someone else’s pictures, but that’s what they look like when I share them. I have a picture framed in my room of myself and my cat in matching sailor shirts that my mom gave me for a birthday a few years ago. It used to be in my living room and I know a dozen or so of my friends have seen it at parties, several of whom did not know me pre-transition, and instead of seeing it and being amused at how unimpressed Maxwell is, they are distracted by the image of me in short shorts, with a clearly unbound chest and long hair, very much looking like the 20 year old girl I was. The reaction is more an effort to reconcile that image with what I look like now, how they know me.

The solution, I guess, is to not show those pictures or share those stories, or to leave out some information to make them neutral, but I’m not willing to lock up 25 years of life to avoid uncomfortable feelings on my part or theirs. Unfortunately, that decision results in this weird, distressing conundrum.

I am fortunate in that most of the people I associate with did know me when I came out, so they are not necessarily surprised by the stories where I have a different name or am married to a man or am distinctly female in some way.

I think it may be easier to handle this sort of dissociation for trans people who are hard-leaning in one direction or the other. If you are distinctly masculine or feminine, or experience severe dysphoria, and you start transitioning, I imagine it is an intense relief to look in the mirror and see yourself as the gender you always knew you were. Perhaps you are more willing, in that case, to lock those stories up in a mental box and have no desire to look at old photos. Maybe it is actually cathartic to see yourself as two distinct people. But.. that just isn’t the case for me.

I am - and have always been completely honest about being - essentially gender neutral. I am neutral on most things, really. I’m neutral on gender, sex, romantic attraction - pretty much anything the lgbt community is concerned with. That’s why I generally identify as queer - all other labels tend to indicate some leaning I do not feel. Transitioning was a logical choice for me, after several years of consideration, because it seemed that being consistently presented in the feminine was wearing on me. I do find that I prefer being referred to with masculine indicators (handsome over pretty, sir over ma’am), but not so strongly as to be angry, anxious, or hurt when someone gets it “wrong,” unless it is repetitive and consistent. I also do have localized chest dysphoria, and always believed that I needed chest surgery (which has not changed). I do not see transitioning as a mistake, but it did come with a consequence I had not accounted for in this feeling of loss.

I think the hard thing about missing “her” is that its much the same as missing someone who has died; you can’t go reconcile and be friends again or call and apologize for just losing touch. That person is gone. She was my best friend, my foundation, my conscience, and its like one day I woke up and she was gone. Like I arbitrarily decided I didn’t need her anymore and moved on. But that’s NOT TRUE. She’s not gone! She’s me! She’s my essence, my heart! But I can’t get to her and the rational knowledge that we are one single person does not assuage the empty feeling in my chest. It is confusing and frustrating and really, painfully lonely.

#a big ol bummer #needed to get this out #hopefully it is coherent #i talked to my therapist about the issue of transitioning while being gender neutral #she said it seemed like one of those questions that didn't have an answer #which is probably true and honest on her part #and i appreciate that but #you know #it isn't exactly helpful #we settled on saying transition was not a mistake #just probably an overcorrection #in that before i was too feminine for my own happiness #and now i am too masculine #neither of which is neutral #the big issue now is what to do moving forward #which is a whole ass post in itself so #i guess i'll purge that stream of consciousness later

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jagadeeshkrishnan · 3 years

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[06/01, 8:51 PM] Jagadeesh KrishnanChandra: The highest spiritual truth is that reality is One. That reality, when personified as the Divine Mother, expresses itself in countless ways. The ten Mahavidyas, or Wisdom Goddesses, represent distinct aspects of divinity intent on guiding the spiritual seeker toward liberation. For the devotionally minded seeker these forms can be approached in a spirit of reverence, love, and increasing intimacy. For a knowledge-oriented seeker, these same forms can represent various states of inner awakening along the path to enlightenment.

Kali

In the series of the ten Mahavidyas or wisdom aspects of the Divine Mother, Kali comes first, for she represents the power of consciousness in its highest form. She is at once supreme power and ultimate reality, underscoring the fundamental Tantric teaching that the power of consciousness and consciousness itself are one and the same.

Kali appears to us in countless ways, but some aspects are more commonly encountered than others. In the esoteric Krama system of Kashmir, she is said to have a succession of twelve forms, beginning with Guhyakali, the supreme mystery, the Absolute. The other eleven forms represent every subsequent level of awareness, all the way down to our ordinary, unenlightened state. From pure formlessness and throughout the countless forms she assumes, Kali is the sole reality. Mother is all, and all is Mother.

The earliest descriptions of Kali belong to the Puranas, and they place her on the battlefield. The Devimahatmya vividly depicts a scene with Kali and her associated goddesses ready to take on an army of demons. Here, Kali has emerged as the personified wrath of the Divine Mother Durga. She appears emaciated, with her dark flesh hanging loosely from her bones. Her sunken eyes glow red in their sockets. She is clad in a tiger’s skin and carries a skull-topped staff. A garland of human heads adorns her neck. Her gaping mouth shows her to be a fearsome, blood-thirsty deity. The battle culminates with the slaying of two demon generals, Canda and Munda, and this act earns her the name Camunda.

In the next episode Camunda takes on the demon Raktabija. His name means, “he whose seed is blood.” Whenever a drop of his blood falls upon the ground, another demon of equal size and strength springs up. In the battle, he sheds blood profusely until the world is teeming with Raktabijas. Just when the battle looks hopeless and the onlooking gods despair, Camunda roams the battlefield, avidly lapping up the blood and crushing the nascent demons between her gnashing teeth. Finally, drained of his last drop of blood, Raktabija topples lifeless to the ground.

On the surface this appears to be a grisly tale, but it symbolizes profound insight. Raktabija’s amazing replicative ability symbolizes the human mind’s ordinary state of awareness. The mind is constantly in motion, and one thought begets another in an endless succession. The mind rarely rests and is never fully concentrated. In the light of Patanjali’s Yogasutra, we can understand Camunda as the power to restrain the mind’s endless modulations, to stop them altogether. When all mental activity (cittavritti) ceases, that state is called yoga: consciousness resting in its own infinite peace and bliss. In that state of ultimate absorption, represented by Camunda’s imbibing of every drop of blood, the soul regains knowledge of its own original divinity. Camunda Kali’s battle scene represents the resorption of fragmented human awareness into transcendental wholeness.

Away from the battlefield Kali assumes more benign forms. As Dakshinakali, she is portrayed as young and beautiful, standing on the supine, ash-besmeared body of Siva, who looks up at her adoringly. Siva is absolute consciousness, ever blissful in its own glory. Kali is consciousness in motion—the overflowing joy that projects, sustains, and withdraws the universe. Consciousness and its power are one and the same reality.

With her lower right hand the four-armed Dakshinakali displays the varadamudra, the gesture of boon-giving. Her upper right hand makes the abhayamudra, reassuring us to have no fear. The upper left hand wields the bloodied sword of knowledge. This is the capacity we can call upon to cut through all appearances and perceive the underlying reality. It is the power of mental discrimination (viveka) essential to spiritual practice and growth. From Kali’s lower left hand dangles the freshly severed head of a demon. This represents the human ego—the small, false sense of individual selfhood that binds us to this world. It is our crippling limitation.

Once it is out of the way, awareness expands to infinity. We become one with the Divine and are liberated.

Kali’s nakedness signifies her boundlessness. Nothing can contain her who is infinite. Her loose, flowing hair also represents freedom, in this case the freedom from social convention, from all the conditioning that has been imposed on us and that we impose on our own minds. Our true nature is unconditioned consciousness—nirguna caitanya. Another symbol of freedom can be found in the girdle of severed human arms that circles her waist. This represents the divine power to cut through the bonds of karma. It is the power inherent in our own consciousness—a freedom of choice in the moment that can also be taken as a sign of divine grace.

Around her neck Kali wears a necklace of skulls. All appearances to the contrary, this is a symbol of creative power. It is the varnamala, the garland of letters. Each skull represents a sound of the Sanskrit alphabet, a particular manifestation of energy. Physics tells us the same thing—that the universe is nothing but energy, vibrating at different frequencies and levels of intensity, and the result is this palpable world of name and form. The imagery of the skulls also reminds us that all created things pass away. Vibration is movement, and everything in the universe is constantly changing. Change is not possible except for time, and Kali is also time, the relentless devourer that in the end swallows up all things.

Kali’s iconography in its various forms invites deep contemplation, and that leads to ever-deepening insight. In general, we can say that all the dualities of life, the light and the dark, the beautiful and the fearsome, are united and reconciled in Kali. She represents supreme nonduality, for she is none other than Brahman. At the same time, the duality of this world is nothing other than her own self-expression.

Two incidents in the life of Sri Ramakrishna bear this out. As a young priest at Dakshinesvar, Ramakrishna developed an unbearable longing for the vision of Kali. One day, feeling he could stand it no longer, he seized the Mother’s sword from the wall in the shrine room, intending to end his life. Just then Kali revealed herself. In that moment the temple and all surroundings vanished, and Ramakrishna beheld only an endless, radiant ocean of consciousness. Feeling he was to be engulfed by the onrushing waves, he lost awareness of the outer world but continued to experience a steady flow of undiluted bliss. Kali had revealed herself as the Absolute. But she is also the relative. On another occasion in the same shrine room, Ramakrishna beheld the image, the altar, the worship vessels, the doorsill, the marble floor, and everything else as nothing but vibrating consciousness—even a cat, to whom he fed the Mother’s food offering! In that experience Kali revealed to him that it is she who has become everything.

From the Absolute to the relative and from the relative to the Absolute, Kali represents the power of transformation. For us, who wrongly think ourselves to be mere mortals, she holds out the promise of transformation from the human to the Divine.

Devadatta Kali (David Nelson) has been closely associated with the Vedanta Society since 1966. A regular lecturer at Vedanta Societies as well as a contributor to Vedanta journals throughout the world, Devadatta Kali is the author of In Praise of the Goddess

Jagadeesh Krishnan

[06/01, 8:51 PM] Jagadeesh KrishnanChandra: யதார்த்தம் ஒன்று என்பது மிக உயர்ந்த ஆன்மீக உண்மை. அந்த உண்மை, தெய்வீகத் தாயாக உருவகப்படுத்தப்படும்போது, எண்ணற்ற வழிகளில் தன்னை வெளிப்படுத்துகிறது. ஆன்மீக தேடுபவரை விடுதலையை நோக்கி வழிநடத்தும் தெய்வீக நோக்கத்தின் தனித்துவமான அம்சங்களை பத்து மகாவித்யாக்கள் அல்லது ஞான தெய்வங்கள் குறிக்கின்றன. பக்தி மனப்பான்மை கொண்டவருக்கு இந்த வடிவங்களை பயபக்தி, அன்பு மற்றும் அதிகரிக்கும் நெருக்கம் ஆகியவற்றில் அணுகலாம். அறிவு சார்ந்த தேடுபவருக்கு, இதே வடிவங்கள் அறிவொளியின் பாதையில் உள்ள உள் விழிப்புணர்வின் பல்வேறு நிலைகளைக் குறிக்கலாம்.

காளி

தெய்வீகத் தாயின் பத்து மகாவித்யாக்கள் அல்லது ஞான அம்சங்களின் தொடரில், காளி முதலில் வருகிறார், ஏனென்றால் அவள் நனவின் சக்தியை அதன் உயர்ந்த வடிவத்தில் பிரதிபலிக்கிறாள். அவள் ஒரே நேரத்தில் மிக உயர்ந்த சக்தியும் இறுதி யதார்த்தமும் உடையவள், நனவு மற்றும் நனவின் சக்தி ஒன்றே ஒன்றுதான் என்ற அடிப்படை தாந்த்ரீக போதனையை அடிக்கோடிட்டுக் காட்டுகிறது.

காளி எண்ணற்ற வழிகளில் நமக்குத் தோன்றுகிறார், ஆனால் சில அம்சங்கள் மற்றவர்களை விட பொதுவாக எதிர்கொள்ளப்படுகின்றன. காஷ்மீரின் ஆழ்ந்த கிராமிய அமைப்பில், குஹியகாலி, உச்ச மர்மம், முழுமையானது என்று தொடங்கி, பன்னிரண்டு வடிவங்களின் தொடர்ச்சியாக அவளுக்குக் கூறப்படுகிறது. மற்ற பதினொரு வடிவங்கள் ஒவ்வொரு அடுத்தடுத்த விழிப்புணர்வையும் குறிக்கின்றன, எல்லா வழிகளிலும் நமது சாதாரண, அறிவற்ற நிலைக்கு. தூய்மையான உருவமற்ற தன்மையிலிருந்தும், எண்ணற்ற வடிவங்களிலிருந்தும் அவள் கருதுவது, காளி மட்டுமே உண்மை. அம்மா எல்லாம், எல்லாம் அம்மா.

காளியின் ஆரம்பகால விளக்கங்கள் புராணங்களைச் சேர்ந்தவை, அவை அவளை போர்க்களத்தில் வைக்கின்றன. காளி மற்றும் அவருடன் தொடர்புடைய தெய்வங்களுடனான ஒரு காட்சியை தேவிமஹாத்மியா தெளிவாக சித்தரிக்கிறது. இங்கே, காளி தெய்வீக அன்னை துர்காவின் ஆளுமைப்படுத்தப்பட்ட கோபமாக வெளிப்பட்டுள்ளார். அவள் இருண்ட சதை அவளது எலும்புகளிலிருந்து தளர்வாக தொங்கிக்கொண்டிருக்கிறாள். அவளது மூழ்கிய கண்கள் அவற்றின் சாக்கெட்டுகளில் சிவந்து ஒளிரும். அவள் புலியின் தோலில் அணிந்திருக்கிறாள், மண்டை ஓடு முதலிடம் கொண்ட ஊழியரைக் கொண்டு செல்கிறாள். மனித தலைகளின் மாலை அவள் கழுத்தை அலங்கரிக்கிறது. அவளது இடைவெளியான வாய் அவளை ஒரு பயமுறுத்தும், இரத்த தாகமுள்ள தெய்வமாகக் காட்டுகிறது. காண்டா மற்றும் முண்டா என்ற இரண்டு அரக்க ஜெனரல்களைக் கொன்றதன் மூலம் போர் முடிவடைகிறது, மேலும் இந்த செயல் அவளுக்கு கமுண்டா என்ற பெயரைப் பெறுகிறது.

அடுத்த எபிசோடில் கமுண்டா ரக்தாபிஜா என்ற அரக்கனை எடுக்கிறது. அவருடைய பெயர், “யாருடைய விதை இரத்தம்” என்று பொருள். அவரது இரத்தத்தின் ஒரு துளி தரையில் விழும்போதெல்லாம், சம அளவு மற்றும் வலிமை கொண்ட மற்றொரு அரக்கன் முளைக்கிறது. போரில், ரக்தாபிஜாக்களுடன் உலகம் கவரும் வரை அவர் மிகுந்த இரத்தத்தை சிந்துகிறார். போர் நம்பிக்கையற்றதாகவும், கவனிக்காத தெய்வங்கள் விரக்தியுடனும் காணப்படுகையில், கமுண்டா போர்க்களத்தில் சுற்றித் திரிகிறாள், ரத்தத்தை மூடிமறைக்கிறாள், அவளது பற்களுக்கு இடையில் இருக்கும் பேய்களை நசுக்குகிறாள். இறுதியாக, தனது கடைசி சொட்டு ரத்தத்தை வடிகட்டிய ரக்தாபிஜா உயிரற்றவர்களை தரையில் கவிழ்த்து விடுகிறார்.

மேற்பரப்பில் இது ஒரு பயங்கரமான கதையாகத் தோன்றுகிறது, ஆனால் இது ஆழமான நுண்ணறிவைக் குறிக்கிறது. ரக்தாபிஜாவின் அற்புதமான பிரதிபலிப்பு திறன் மனித மனதின் சாதாரண விழிப்புணர்வைக் குறிக்கிறது. மனம் தொடர்ந்து இயக்கத்தில் உள்ளது, ஒரு எண்ணம் முடிவில்லாமல் அடுத்ததாக பிறக்கிறது. மனம் அரிதாகவே நிற்கிறது மற்றும் ஒருபோதும் முழுமையாக குவிந்துவிடாது. பதஞ்சலியின் யோகசூத்ராவின் வெளிச்சத்தில், மனதின் முடிவற்ற பண்பேற்றங்களைத் தடுக்கும், அவற்றை முற்றிலுமாகத் தடுக்கும் சக்தியாக காமுண்டாவை நாம் புரிந்து கொள்ள முடியும். எல்லா மன செயல்பாடுகளும் (சிட்டாவ்ரிட்டி) நிறுத்தப்படும்போது, அந்த நிலை யோகா என்று அழைக்கப்படுகிறது: நனவு அதன் எல்லையற்ற அமைதி மற்றும் பேரின்பத்தில் ஓய்வெடுக்கிறது. காமுண்டாவின் ஒவ்வொரு துளி ரத்தத்தையும் ஊக்குவிப்பதன் மூலம் பிரதிநிதித்துவப்படுத்தப்படும் இறுதி உறிஞ்சுதல் நிலையில், ஆன்மா அதன் சொந்த தெய்வீகத்தைப் பற்றிய அறிவை மீண்டும் பெறுகிறது. காமுண்டா காளியின் போர்க் காட்சி, துண்டு துண்டான மனித விழிப்புணர்வை ஆழ்நிலை முழுமையில் மறுஉருவாக்கம் செய்வதைக் குறிக்கிறது.

போர்க்களத்திலிருந்து காளி இன்னும் தீங்கற்ற வடிவங்களை எடுத்துக்கொள்கிறான். தட்சிணகலி என்ற முறையில், அவள் இளமையாகவும் அழகாகவும் சித்தரிக்கப்படுகிறாள், சிவாவின் உயர்ந்த, சாம்பல் பூசப்பட்ட உடலில் நின்று, அவளை அழகாகப் பார்க்கிறாள். சிவா என்பது முழுமையான நனவாகும், அதன் சொந்த மகிமையில் எப்போதும் ஆனந்தமாக இருக்கும். காளி என்பது இயக்கத்தில் உள்ள நனவு-பிரபஞ்சத்தைத் திட்டமிடுகிறது, நிலைநிறுத்துகிறது, திரும்பப் பெறுகிறது. நனவும் அதன் சக்தியும் ஒன்றே ஒன்றுதான் உண்மை.

அவளது கீழ் வலது கையால் நான்கு ஆயுதங்களைக் கொண்ட தட்சிணகலி வரதமுத்திரத்தைக் காட்டுகிறது, இது வரம் கொடுக்கும் சைகை. அவளுடைய மேல் வலது கை அபயமுத்ராவை ஆக்குகிறது, எங்களுக்கு எந்த பயமும் இல்லை என்று உறுதியளிக்கிறது. மேல் இடது கை அறிவின் இரத்தக்களரி வாளைப் பயன்படுத்துகிறது. இது எல்லா தோற்றங்களையும் குறைத்து, அடிப்படை யதார்த்தத்தை உணர நாம் அழைக்கக்கூடிய திறன். இது ஆன்மீக பயிற்சி மற்றும் வளர்ச்சிக்கு அவசியமான மன பாகுபாட்டின் (விவேகா) சக்தி. காளியின் கீழ் இடது கையில் இருந்து ஒரு அரக்கனின் புதிதாக துண்டிக்கப்பட்ட தலையை தொங்குகிறது. இது மனித ஈகோவை பிரதிபலிக்கிறது individual தனிப்பட்ட சுயநலத்தின் சிறிய, தவறான உணர்வு நம்மை இந்த உலகத்துடன் பிணைக்கிறது. இது எங்கள் ஊனமுற்ற வரம்பு.

அது முடிந்தவுடன், விழிப்புணர்வு முடிவிலிக்கு விரிவடைகிறது. நாம் தெய்வீகத்துடன் ஒன்றாகி விடுவிக்கப்படுகிறோம்.

காளியின் நிர்வாணம் அவளது எல்லையற்ற தன்மையைக் குறிக்கிறது. எல்லையற்ற அவளை எதுவும் கொண்டிருக்க முடியாது. அவளுடைய தளர்வான, பாயும் கூந்தலும் சுதந்திரத்தை பிரதிபலிக்கிறது, இந்த விஷயத்தில் சமூக மாநாட்டிலிருந்து, நம்மீது சுமத்தப்பட்டுள்ள அனைத்து நிபந்தனைகளிலிருந்தும், நம் சொந்த மனதில் நாம் திணிக்கும் சுதந்திரத்தையும் குறிக்கிறது. எங்கள் உண்மையான இயல்பு நிபந்தனையற்ற உணர்வு - நிர்குனா சைதன்யா. சுதந்திரத்தின் மற்றொரு சின்னத்தை அவளது இடுப்பை வட்டமிடும் துண்டிக்கப்பட்ட மனித ஆயுதங்களின் இடுப்பில் காணலாம். இது கர்மாவின் பிணைப்புகளை வெட்டுவதற்கான தெய்வீக சக்தியைக் குறிக்கிறது. இது நம்முடைய சொந்த நனவில் உள்ளார்ந்த சக்தி-தெய்வீக கிருபையின் அடையாளமாக எடுத்துக்கொள்ளக்கூடிய தருணத்தில் தேர்வு செய்யும் சுதந்திரம்.

கழுத்தில் காளி மண்டை ஓடுகளின் நகையை அணிந்துள்ளார். எல்லா தோற்றங்களும் மாறாக, இது படைப்பு சக்தியின் சின்னமாகும். இது வர்ணாமாலா, எழுத்துக்களின் மாலை. ஒவ்வொரு மண்டை ஓடும் சமஸ்கிருத எழுத்துக்களின் ஒலியைக் குறிக்கிறது, இது ஆற்றலின் ஒரு குறிப்பிட்ட வெளிப்பாடு. இயற்பியல் நமக்கு அதையே சொல்கிறது-பிரபஞ்சம் ஆற்றலைத் தவிர வேறொன்றுமில்லை, வெவ்வேறு அதிர்வெண்களிலும் தீவிரத்தின் அளவிலும் அதிர்வுறும், இதன் விளைவாக பெயர் மற்றும் வடிவத்தின் இந்த தெளிவான உலகம். மண்டை ஓடுகளின் உருவப்படமும் படைக்கப்பட்ட விஷயங்கள் அனைத்தும் கடந்து செல்கின்றன என்பதை நமக்கு நினைவூட்டுகிறது. அதிர்வு என்பது இயக்கம், மற்றும் பிரபஞ்சத்தில் உள்ள அனைத்தும் தொடர்ந்து மாறிக்கொண்டே இருக்கின்றன. காலத்தைத் தவிர மாற்றம் சாத்தியமில்லை, காளியும் நேரம், இடைவிடாத விழுங்குபவர் இறுதியில் எல்லாவற்றையும் விழுங்குகிறார்.

காளியின் பல்வேறு வடிவங்களில் உள்ள உருவப்படம் ஆழ்ந்த சிந்தனையை அழைக்கிறது, மேலும் இது எப்போதும் ஆழமான நுண்ணறிவுக்கு வழிவகுக்கிறது. பொதுவாக, வாழ்க்கையின் இருமைகள், ஒளி மற்றும் இருள், அழகான மற்றும் பயமுறுத்தும் அனைத்தும் காளியில் ஒன்றுபட்டு சமரசம் செய்யப்படுகின்றன என்று நாம் கூறலாம். அவள் வேறு யாருமல்ல, ஏனென்றால் அவள் பிரம்மன். அதே சமயம், இந்த உலகத்தின் இருமை அவளுடைய சுய வெளிப்பாட்டைத் தவிர வேறில்லை.

ஸ்ரீ ராமகிருஷ்ணாவின் வாழ்க்கையில் இரண்டு சம்பவங்கள் இதைத் தாங்குகின்றன. தட்சினேஸ்வரில் ஒரு இளம் பாதிரியாராக, ராமகிருஷ்ணர் காளியின் பார்வைக்கு தாங்க முடியாத ஏக்கத்தை வளர்த்துக் கொண்டார். ஒரு நாள், தன்னால் இனி அதைத் தாங்க முடியாது என்று உணர்ந்த அவர், தனது வாழ்க்கையை முடிக்க நினைத்து, சன்னதி அறையில் உள்ள சுவரிலிருந்து தாயின் வாளைப் பிடித்தார். அப்போதே காளி தன்னை வெளிப்படுத்தினாள். அந்த நேரத்தில் கோவிலும் சுற்றுப்புறங்களும் அனைத்தும் மறைந்துபோனது, ராமகிருஷ்ணா ஒரு முடிவற்ற, கதிரியக்க நனவின் கடலை மட்டுமே பார்த்தார். தொடர்ச்சியான அலைகளால் தன்னை மூழ்கடிப்பதாக உணர்ந்த அவர், வெளி உலகத்தைப் பற்றிய விழிப்புணர்வை இழந்தார், ஆனால் தொடர்ந்து நீடித்த ஆனந்தத்தின் ஓட்டத்தை அனுபவித்தார். காளி தன்னை முழுமையானவர் என்று வெளிப்படுத்தியிருந்தார். ஆனால் அவளும் உறவினர். அதே சன்னதி அறையில் நடந்த மற்றொரு சந்தர்ப்பத்தில், ராமகிருஷ்ணர் உருவம், பலிபீடம், வழிபாட்டுக் கப்பல்கள், கதவு வாசல், பளிங்குத் தளம் மற்றும் எல்லாவற்றையும் அதிர்வுறும் உணர்வைத் தவிர வேறொன்றுமில்லை-ஒரு பூனை கூட, யாருக்கு அவர் தாயின் உணவுப் பிரசாதம் கொடுத்தார்! அந்த அனுபவத்தில் காளி அவனுக்கு எல்லாவற்றையும் ஆகிவிட்டாள் என்பதை வெளிப்படுத்தினாள்.

முழுமையானது முதல் உறவினர் வரை மற்றும் உறவினர் முதல் முழுமையானவர் வரை, காளி மாற்றத்தின் சக்தியைக் குறிக்கிறது. நம்மைப் பொறுத்தவரை, நம்மை வெறும் மனிதர்கள் என்று தவறாக நினைக்கும் அவள், மனிதனிடமிருந்து தெய்வீகமாக மாற்றுவதற்கான வாக்குறுதியை வைத்திருக்கிறாள்.

தேவதாட்டா காளி (டேவிட் நெல்சன்) 1966 முதல் வேதாந்தா சொசைட்டியுடன் நெருக்கமாக தொடர்பு கொண்டிருந்தார். வேதாந்தா சங்கங்களில் ஒரு வழக்கமான விரிவுரையாளரும், உலகம் முழுவதும் வேதாந்தா பத்திரிகைகளுக்கு பங்களிப்பவருமான தேவதாத்தா காளி இன் புகழ் தேவி எழுதியவர்

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