Opening: When Everything Feels Dead

Before You Begin

Get comfortable. However your body needs to be—sitting, lying down, curled up under a blanket, propped up with all the pillows. This isn't about perfect meditation posture. This is about finding a shape that doesn't fight you.

You might want something to hold. A blanket, a pillow, your own hand, your cat if they're cooperating. Something that reminds your nervous system: we're safe while we do this.

Take a breath. Not a perfect pranayama breath—just air moving in and out of your actual human body.

And just notice: what feels dead right now? What's the thing you've been avoiding looking at directly?

Don't answer out loud. Just let the question sit there.

When you're ready, let your eyes close or soften your gaze, take three deep breaths, and let's walk.

Entering the Garden

You're standing at the edge of an overgrown garden.

This isn't the garden you remember. Or maybe it is, but time did its thing. Vines claimed the pathways. Flowers went to seed and scattered. What was once carefully tended returned to something wilder, messier.

The air smells like earth after rain. Like green things slowly becoming brown. Like autumn even if it's not autumn where you are.

There's a gate ahead. Weathered wood, paint peeling in long strips, but still standing. Probably still functional if you're willing to push it.

You've been avoiding this gate.

You know what's beyond it.

But today something's different.

Today you see her.

Nirṛti (near-REE-tee)

She's sitting on the ground just inside the gate, her dark sari blending with the shadows and the soil. Her hands are in the dirt—not digging, not planting, just resting there. Listening to what the earth is doing.

She looks up. Her face is weathered and her eyes are ancient and completely unsurprised. Like she's been sitting here waiting, but not impatiently. Time moves differently in her corner of things.

"You came," she says.

It's not a question.

Your throat feels tight. You nod.

"Show me," she says, gesturing to the garden behind her. "Show me what you think is dead."

Walking Through What Died

The gate creaks when you push it. Rust and old wood and hinges that haven't moved in a while. But it opens.

The path is barely visible. Overgrown with weeds and volunteer plants and things you definitely didn't put there. You can see the shapes of what used to be here, though.

There—that was going to be your flower bed.

Over there—those were the dreams you planted in your twenties.

Further in—that whole section was the relationship you thought would last.

Nirṛti walks beside you. She doesn't rush. Doesn't tell you to "focus on growth" or "everything happens for a reason" or any of that stuff people say when they're uncomfortable with grief.

She just walks. And witnesses.

She stops at the first dead thing.

Maybe it's literal—a plant you tried to grow that withered. Maybe it's symbolic—the shape of something you poured everything into that didn't survive.

"Look closer," she says.

You don't want to. You've been avoiding looking at this for months. Maybe years. There's a reason you stopped walking in this garden.

But her hand is gentle on your shoulder. Steady. "Look."

So you kneel in the overgrown path. You look.

And you see—

(Pause here. Actually let yourself see it. The specific thing. The one you've been avoiding. Name it, even just silently. I know your brain wants to keep this abstract and metaphorical. Let it be concrete. What actually died?)

It's dead.

You're not wrong about that. It didn't survive. It's not sleeping or dormant or waiting for the right conditions. It's done.

But.

"Touch the soil," Nirṛti says.

You put your hands in the dirt around this dead thing. And—

It's rich. Dark. Almost black. Loamy. It crumbles between your fingers and smells like earth and time.

This isn't barren ground. This isn't empty. This is soil that's been fed by everything that fell here. Every leaf that dropped. Every stem that rotted. Every dream that composted down.

"Death is my work," Nirṛti says quietly. She's kneeling beside you now, her hands also in the soil. "But death is never the end of the story. It's the middle. The transformation. The returning."

She lifts a handful of dark earth and lets it fall slowly through her fingers.

"This ground remembers everything. Nothing is wasted here. Everything that lived, everything that died—it's all still feeding the garden. You just can't see it yet."

She looks at you with those ancient eyes.

"You think this is failure. You think something went wrong."

You nod. Because yeah. That's exactly what you think.

"What if nothing went wrong?" she asks. "What if this thing died exactly when it was supposed to? What if it did its job and then fed the soil so something else could grow?"

You don't have an answer for that.

She doesn't seem to need one.

What Still Lives

Nirṛti stands, brushing dirt from her hands and her sari. It doesn't really help—she's covered in soil and seems completely unbothered by it.

"Come," she says. "There's more."

You follow her deeper into the abandoned garden.

And here's the thing you didn't expect:

In between the dead things, in the spaces where you thought nothing remained—

Things are growing.

Not the things you planted. Not what you expected or planned for or carefully tended.

But wildflowers. Self-seeded herbs. Saplings that showed up on their own. Volunteer growth that didn't ask permission.

The garden has its own ideas about what should grow here.

"You think you failed," Nirṛti says. She's stopped beside a cluster of tiny purple flowers you've never seen before. "Because what you planted didn't survive the way you wanted."

She kneels, touching the flowers gently.

"But look what came instead. Look what grew from the composted dreams."

And suddenly you can see it. The pattern.

Where that relationship died? This strength grew. This boundary. This knowing about what you actually need.

Where that career path withered? This clarity emerged. This truth about who you are when you're not trying to be who you thought you should be.

Where that version of yourself couldn't survive? This more honest self took root. Quieter maybe. Less impressive from the outside. But real in a way the other never was.

"The garden of what remains," Nirṛti says softly, standing again, "is never empty. It's just not what you expected."

She looks at you steadily.

"Sometimes the thing that grows in the ruins is the thing you actually needed all along. You just couldn't see it while you were trying to force something else to bloom."

The Compost Heap

Nirṛti leads you to the back corner. The southwest corner, if you're paying attention to directions.

There's a compost heap here. Dark and rich and actively breaking down. Steam rises from it in the cool air—the heat of transformation.

This is where you've been throwing everything you couldn't bear to look at. The grief you weren't supposed to still be feeling. The rage that wasn't spiritual enough. The disappointment you should've moved past by now. The shame about what didn't work.

It smells like earth and decay and something almost sweet underneath.

"This," Nirṛti says, "is the most sacred part of the garden."

You look at her like she's lost it.

She laughs. It's a sound like dry leaves and rain at once. Like autumn and spring having a conversation.

"You've been taught that sacred is only the beautiful parts. Only the blooming. Only the success and the growth and the things you can post about."

She walks to the compost heap and plunges her hands directly into it.

"But this?" She lifts a handful of rich, dark, breaking-down matter. "This is where the actual magic happens. This is transformation. Everything you've been avoiding, everything you've been ashamed of—it's all becoming food for what's next."

She holds out her hands to you. They're full of compost. Full of everything that died and broke down and looked like failure.

"You can leave it here and pretend it doesn't exist," she says. "Keep walking past this corner, keep focusing only on the pretty parts."

She pauses.

"Or you can claim it. Recognize it as the wealth it actually is. Take it in your hands and feel how rich this failure has made you."

(Here you get to choose. What do you do? Do you take what she's offering? Do you put your hands in your own compost heap? There's no right answer. Just notice what your body wants to do.)

The Thing You Came to Find

Nirṛti wipes her hands on her sari. Dark streaks join the other stains—this is clearly not the first time she's been elbow-deep in compost.

"There's one more thing," she says.

She leads you to a corner of the garden you haven't looked at yet. Maybe didn't even know existed. It's so overgrown you almost miss it.

But there—

There's something alive.

Something that survived when everything else died. Something small, maybe. Possibly overlooked. Definitely not what you were trying to grow.

But undeniably, stubbornly, persistently alive.

"This," Nirṛti says, and her voice is different now—gentler, reverent even, "is what endures."

Maybe it's a practice that survived when everything else fell away. Maybe it's a knowing you can't unknow now. Maybe it's a love that outlasted all the conditions you put on it. Maybe it's just your own breath, still moving in and out despite absolutely everything.

"This is what you built the garden for," she says. "Even if you didn't know it at the time."

You kneel beside this living thing. This survivor. This thing that kept going when nothing else did.

And you realize something:

This is what matters. This is what's real. Everything else—all the careful planning, all the things you tried to force, all the versions you performed—they were just teaching you to see this.

The thing that grew without permission. The thing that survived without your management. The thing that's just... alive.

Nirṛti sits beside you in the dirt.

"The garden will die and grow and die again," she says. "That's what gardens do. That's what life does. Everything composting, everything feeding everything else, cycles forever."

She touches the living thing gently.

"But this right here? This is yours. This is what you tend now. Not because it will bloom perfectly or impress anyone. Not because it fits the plan. But because it's alive, and you're alive, and that's reason enough."

The Return

Nirṛti walks you back to the gate.

The garden looks different now. Still wild. Still full of dead things and abandoned plans and that massive compost heap in the corner.

But also—alive. In ways you couldn't see before. Growing things you didn't plant. Composting things that needed to break down. Making space.

"You can come back here whenever you need to," she says at the gate. "This garden doesn't go anywhere. It's always here, always doing its work. Composting, growing, dying, feeding itself."

She opens the gate for you.

But before you step through, she catches your arm. Gently.

"One more thing."

You turn.

Her ancient eyes are kind and absolutely unflinching.

"The things that died? They were supposed to die. They did their job. They fed the soil. They made space. They taught you what you needed to know."

She squeezes your arm once.

"You didn't fail the garden. The garden is doing exactly what gardens do."

You step through the gate.

It closes behind you with that same rusty creak.

But you can still smell the earth on your hands.

Coming Back

Take a breath. A real one.

Feel your body. Your actual, physical, present-moment body sitting here reading these words. Feel what's beneath you. What's touching your skin. The temperature of the air.

Notice your hands. Flex your fingers. Are they clenched? Relaxed? Just notice.

The garden is inside you. It's been there the whole time. But now you've walked it with Nirṛti. Now you've seen what she sees.

When you're ready—no rush, take your time—come all the way back.

You're here. You're alive. You're holding both the dead things and the living things, and somehow, that's exactly right.

Integration: The Questions That Matter

(Write as much or as little as you want. There are no right answers. This isn't homework. This is just space to let things land.)

About What's Dead:

What did you see in the garden that felt dead? Get specific if you can. Sometimes naming is half the medicine.

When Nirṛti asked you to touch the soil around the dead thing, what did you feel? Not what you think you should have felt—what actually happened?

How long have you been avoiding looking at this? And what has that avoidance cost you?

About What's Growing:

What grew in the places where you expected nothing? What strengths, what knowings, what unexpected gifts showed up in the ruins?

Where have you been so focused on what died that you completely missed what's actually thriving?

What's growing wild in your life right now—volunteer growth you didn't plan for but that's happening anyway?

About The Compost Heap:

When Nirṛti offered you the handful of compost—the wealth of your failures—did you take it? If yes, what was that like? If no, what stopped you?

What have you been treating as waste that might actually be wealth? What failure has made you richer than you want to admit?

If you were honest about what's in your compost heap right now, what would you find there?

About What Endures:

The small living thing in the corner—what was it? What survived when everything else died?

What have you been trying to keep alive that's actually already dead, while ignoring the thing that's quietly, persistently surviving on its own?

Here's a weird one: if Nirṛti showed up at your kitchen table tomorrow morning, what would she say about the thing you're currently trying to force into blooming?

The Real Questions:

What needs to be composted? What are you still carrying around that wants to break down and become soil?

"You didn't fail the garden. The garden is doing exactly what gardens do." How does that land? What changes if you believe it?

Will you return to this garden? Is this a one-time visit or somewhere you need to walk regularly?

A Final Note From Me

Full transparency: I'm learning about Nirṛti as an outsider to Hindu tradition. I'm sharing what this goddess's story is teaching me, not claiming to be an authority on Hindu theology or practice. If you have deeper knowledge of these traditions, I'm always learning.

Nirṛti isn't a popular goddess. You won't find her on inspirational Instagram posts with sunset backgrounds and perfect fonts. Nobody's building temples to decay.

But she's teaching me that nothing is wasted. That the broken-down places are where transformation actually happens. That my failures aren't evidence I'm doing it wrong—they're compost.

And honestly? That's the kind of spiritual teaching I can actually work with.

If this pathworking met you in your own ruins—welcome. You're in good company here.

The compost heap is never empty. It's just asking you to see with different eyes.

Return whenever you need to remember: you didn't fail. You're just composting. And something is always, always growing.

Next in the series: Volume 3 - The Threshold Guardian (coming soon)

This pathworking is part of the Sacred Stories series—meditative journeys through Hindu mythology for modern seekers. Each one stands alone, so start wherever calls to you.