Chapter 3 · Thresholds and Teachers

Tryambakam

Cristina do Valle Mirrors of the Infinite

Where was the flame when I lay down to rest? A breath of dust, a whisper pressed, the silence before thunder, the dream before dawn, a spark in the seam where the veil is drawn. The portal unfurled, its fingers released, a sigh of light from the heart of peace. Tryambakam, Tryambakam, threshold of lightning, unnameable gate. I fell through mirrors of time unspun, where cities wept and rivers ran, and voices echoed from broken halls: I am Shiva, three-eyed flame. I am Rudra, breaker of chains. I am Nataraja, dancer of veils, Loosener of death’s knot, keeper of tales. Fruit ripens, souls return, lotus fragrance drifts where no shadows burn. Serpents coiled at His throat lay still, the river poured but quenched no will. The drumbeat pulsed, heartbeat of release, a rhythm of endings, a rhythm of peace. And I heard a voice: Forgive the shadow, it never bound. Forgive the fire, it only found. Forgive the body, it was not home. Return to the place you’ve never roamed. The storm raged on, yet its heart was clear: mercy in lightning, thunder near. Tryambakam, Tryambakam, hymn of the unborn, song of release. Dawn arrived strangely, rosy-fingered, shy. The mirror sea held back the sky. Each crest a prayer, each trough undone, chains dissolved in the rising sun. Stone became flame, flame became flower, air tasted sweet with creation’s power. The silence bent, and in its bending, joy. Now I walk in the after-beat, the hush between remembrance and sleep. A witness waits where words grow thin… Tryambakam… Tryambak… tryam…

Reflection

This poem is a prayer disguised as a vision, a descent into the heart of dissolution. Writing Tryambakam was not an act of creation so much as transcription. The words came like fragments of a chant I already knew, one that had been sung long before I existed. It was a night when my soul met Shiva not as a deity separate from me, but as an aspect of my own eternal being; the One who loosens the knot of death and dances the cycles of birth into stillness.

In this vision, the distortions of fear and mortality melted away. Death was no longer a finality but a doorway, and fire no longer destruction but illumination. The serpents, often feared symbols, revealed themselves as guardians; even their venom served only awakening.

This poem became a map of release: forgiveness of shadow, body, and illusion. It reminded me that what we grieve to lose was never truly ours, and what we seek to reach was never far. Tryambakam taught me to see the storm’s eye, not as chaos, but as a still point that holds mercy.

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