I Die Every Mandala

I Die Every Mandala

I die every mandala.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

Something in me collapses every cycle.

Each time the sahasrara cracks open, something I once called “myself” is stripped away. And in that breaking, there is liberation.

Such is my mother.

She kills me and makes me rise again every Amavasya.

In the darkness, when nothing reflects back, when the moon is swallowed whole, she takes another layer. Another illusion. Another identity.

People call it hardship.

I call it condensation.

Her love is not soft. It is surgical. She shortens the path by compressing lifetimes into months, months into days, days into moments. She does not delay karma; she accelerates it. She does not stretch learning across births; she forces it into this one.

And so I die often.

Many wonder why the things that once felt like doors to happiness or despair no longer shake me. Why praise does not inflate. Why loss does not hollow. Why old triggers feel distant, almost trivial.

Because the kapala has fallen.

That head the one that reacted, feared, clung has already been taken. And each time she lifts me back into life, it is into a slightly higher consciousness. A slightly wider sky.

But do not mistake this for ease.

There are moments when I scream internally, “I don’t want this, Maa. Not again.”

And in that silence I can almost see her smile the chanchala glance, the whisper that cuts through resistance:

“Just walk, my child.”

That is when another truth rises within me.

Never doubt the coach.

You walk. You do not negotiate. You do not demand explanations. You move. Not everything will make sense in the moment. Not every burn will feel purposeful. But there is no better teacher than Maa.

And no coach respects a whining warrior.

This path demands forward motion. Not comfort. Not clarity on demand. Just movement.

It is the path of being broken deliberately, only to rise cleaner, sharper, lighter.

I die every mandala.

And I rise every Amavasya.

Not because I am strong.

But because my mother refuses to leave me unfinished.