THE SUBLIME HUMILITY OF SHIVA
I was told He was a King, surrounded by gold and laws, but when I opened the door, I found only the Divinity of Peace.
He wore no crowns; He brought the silence of the forests and a gaze that undid, in seconds, what theology took years to build.
He is the Paradoxical:
The One who sustains galaxies with a single finger, yet kneels upon the earth to hear the whisper of a wounded soul. He is the fire that consumes the ego, yet the coolness of water that soothes a burning heart.
He is Pashupati:
The Shepherd who uses no staff, but Love itself. Who is not repulsed by our wounds, nor in a hurry with our steps.
He walks barefoot upon the stones of time, being the final destination for those who have grown tired of running.
He is Bhole Baba:
The Father whose innocence is so vast that the world mistakes it for fragility.
He asks for no silver rituals, nor difficult words. He is content with love and affection, with the tear that falls when the "I" finally surrenders to "Him."
He is not a God of marble, cold and distant. He is the Heat that dwells within the marrow of the Siddhas, the Silence of Maharshi upon the mountain, and the sweetness hidden behind the strength of Mahadeva.
He does not dwell only in the temples of India; He is in the sparkle of our eyes, in the scent of the forest after the rain, and in that sacred space between one thought and the next, where He whispers: "Do not be afraid, I have always been here."
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