I've been standing at this door for weeks. Not a literal door—though there's a closet I haven't opened because I shoved all my unfinished projects in there. But those life thresholds where you have to decide: Do I let this in? Do I keep this out? In Hindu tradition, dvara means door or threshold. Dvarapalas are door guardians who ask: Who gets through? What stays out? Ganesha doesn't remove every obstacle—some are protection. Durga guards fiercely. Hanuman says no even to gods when devotion requires it. This pathworking walks you to your threshold to meet your keeper and make a conscious choice about your door. Not to get it right. Just to choose with your eyes open. [Continue reading the full meditation and journal prompts...]

I've been putting off writing this one. Because who wants to meditate on decay? Who wants to spend time with the goddess whose entire job is presiding over dead things? But here's what keeps nagging at me about Nirṛti (near-REE-tee, and I'm probably butchering that): she's essential. Without her, nothing new could grow. Without decay, no transformation. My youngest is convinced our backyard compost heap is magic because we throw in garbage and somehow get soil. He's not wrong. So maybe you're in that season where nothing is growing. Or maybe something actually died—a relationship, a dream, a version of yourself you were sure you'd become. And everyone's telling you to "let go" and "move forward" as if grief has an expiration date. This pathworking walks you to the corner of the garden nobody wants to visit—where things break down, where ruins become soil, where failure becomes wealth. Fair warning: the goddess of decay doesn't do light and fluffy. But I'll be here with you.

You've tried everything to let it go. Journaled about it. Meditated on it. Done the shadow work. Burned the letter. And still—at 3am, your mind goes there. Everyone keeps saying "just let it go" like it's a choice you're refusing to make. But some pain has roots deeper than good intentions. Some memories won't release just because you decided they should. In Hindu mythology, there's the Vaitarani—the river you cross between lives. The waters that can wash away what you're ready to release. Yama, the god of death, stands witness at the crossing. This pathworking takes you to that river to get honest about what you're carrying and why. Not to force release, but to stop lying to yourself about the weight. Full meditation with integration prompts included.

So here you are. In the rubble. Maybe the relationship ended. The job disappeared. The version of yourself you spent years building just... collapsed. And everyone's got their platitudes ready: "Everything happens for a reason." But right now you're standing in ash and the only thing you know for sure is that something died and you're not sure yet if you died with it. Here's what nobody tells you about transformation: it doesn't feel like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. It feels like burning alive. The ancient yogis knew this. They had a place for it—the shmashana (shma-SHAH-nah), the cremation grounds where everything burns down to ash and truth. Kali dances there. Wild-eyed, tongue out, wearing a garland of skulls. She's the force that clears the ground. The dark mother who loves you enough to burn away everything that isn't actually you. This pathworking takes you to meet her. To stand at your own pyre and see what's burning, what survives the flames, and what grows from the ash

You thought you were done with that pattern. The wound you healed, the lesson you learned, the therapy bills you paid. Done. Moving forward. And then it shows up again. Different face, same gut-punch feeling. Same old story whispering that nothing's changed and all that work was expensive self-delusion. Here's what nobody tells you: healing doesn't move in straight lines. It spirals. You're not going backward—you're meeting the same issue from a different level, with different tools, as a different version of yourself. The ancient yogis knew this. They built it into everything. Samsara isn't just reincarnation—it's patterns cycling until you wake up enough to meet them differently. This pathworking takes you into the mythological Spiral Grove where trees remember every version of you who walked this path before. You'll meet your guide at the spiral tree's center and discover what this returning pattern has actually been trying to teach you. Because you're not stuck.

Standing at a threshold you didn't ask for? That door demanding you choose—open it or keep it closed? The ancient yogis knew about this too. Every Hindu temple has dvarapalas, fierce guardians asking: Are you ready for what's beyond? Ganesha doesn't remove every obstacle—sometimes the block IS the protection. This guided meditation takes you to meet your own threshold keeper, to discover what you're actually protecting, and whether your door is a boundary or a cage. You'll learn the difference between the three keys: readiness, fear, and force. Because indecision is still a choice—it's choosing to let fear decide while you pretend you haven't. Discover which key you're holding and what your soul actually wants beyond that door.