The Hidden Wisdom in Divine Imagery

In Hinduism, the lotus flower is one of the most sacred symbols — a metaphor for purity, resilience, and spiritual rebirth. It grows in murky waters yet rises untouched, blooming in serene beauty, symbolizing the soul’s journey through the mud of human experience into enlightenment. You’ll see it in the hands or under the feet of many deities: Lakshmi, seated gracefully upon a blooming lotus, embodying abundance and grace. Saraswati, goddess of wisdom, often carries it as a symbol of knowledge unfolding. Even Brahma, the creator, is born from a lotus emerging from the navel of Vishnu — a powerful image of divine birth and creation.

But something curious happens when we look at the fierce, protective, or ego-destroying forms of divinity:
The lotus disappears.

Where is the lotus when Kali dances on Shiva’s still body, tongue out, smeared in ashes?
Where is the lotus when Durga slays the buffalo demon Mahishasura, brandishing weapons in every hand?
Why does Lord Shiva, the supreme ascetic who drinks poison and meditates in cremation grounds, never hold a lotus?

It’s not an oversight — it’s a teaching.

Divine Fierceness Doesn’t Bloom — It Burns

The lotus is a symbol of rebirth, yes — but rebirth requires death. Growth requires pressure. Blooming requires mud.

The fierce deities represent the necessary fire — the ego-shattering, illusion-destroying, soul-protecting energy that precedes the bloom. They are not the flower — they are the storm before the flower breaks open.

You don’t see the lotus in their hands, because you are the lotus — and they are doing the work of breaking you open.

The Two Sides of Growth: Bloom and Burn

We often want growth to be graceful, soft, elegant — like Lakshmi or Saraswati, lotus in hand, light all around. But real transformation usually begins in the dark, in the muck, where we’re not holding a lotus — we’re

being held down by the weight of our own becoming.

• Sometimes you’re Lakshmi, glowing and blooming.
• Sometimes you’re Durga, fighting for your soul.
• Sometimes you’re Kali, breaking every illusion.
• Sometimes you’re the mud. And that’s okay too.

The absence of the lotus in divine battle is a spiritual reminder:
The bloom is sacred. But so is the burn.

When the Rose-Colored Glasses Fell

For me, it took nearly three years for the rose-colored glasses to fully come off. I held on — to love, to hope, to the image I had built in my mind. It wasn’t until earlier this year, that I finally let go. That was when I stopped waiting and began seeing clearly. I began acknowledging truths I hadn’t been ready to face. Not because I lacked awareness, but because my heart needed time to catch up with reality.

That shift didn’t come quietly. It came with discomfort, reflection, and an unraveling of illusions I once clung to. It was painful — but it was also necessary.

Now —
I am becoming the bloom.

Let This Be Your Reflection:

If you are in a season of loss, breakdown, or shedding —
If you feel raw, fierce, or misunderstood —
If your hands are too full fighting battles to hold flowers —

Take heart.

The lotus isn’t gone.
It’s just not time to hold it yet.
You’re in the part of the story where the goddess shows up with weapons, not flowers — not because you’re broken, but because you’re being rebuilt.

You are becoming the bloom.
And when the time comes, the lotus will return — in your hand, in your heart, in your light.