✨ “When the Goddess Laughs

A Mystic’s Guide to Surviving October Chaos.”

Ah, October—the month when the veils between worlds thin and the universe, in her infinite mischief, decides to play practical jokes with human schedules. You ask her, “Why me?” and she doesn’t whisper soft cosmic comfort. No, she laughs—a full-bodied, echoing cackle that sounds suspiciously like destiny with a glass of wine. And yet, here I am, knee-deep in divine chaos, performing my annual ritual of biting off more than I can chew, and somehow chewing anyway.

It all began with Ramlila, that grand theatrical ode to gods, demons, and very poor time management. I said yes, not because I had a plan, but because apparently my higher self has a wicked sense of humor. There I was, staring at a cast list that looked like a cosmic prank—no dancers, no direction, and no idea how to pull this off. I could almost hear the universe snickering, “You wanted growth, didn’t you?” I was ready to surrender, to confess defeat to the organizers, to admit that maybe divine guidance had taken a day off. And then—bam!—an old friend appears out of nowhere, like a deus ex machina in sunglasses, sending me eight dancers as if she’d been tipped off by a goddess with a flair for dramatic timing. Naturally, two vanished into thin air before opening night, because what’s faith without a little suspense? But six stayed. Six mortals brave enough to dance through my panic.

Just when I thought the divine comedy was easing up, one of the main dancers decided to test Newton’s laws with her body and ended up in an accident. The day before the show, Sita herself—our heroine, our goddess incarnate—fell sick and landed in the hospital. You can’t make this up. I could almost see the gods in the cosmic balcony, eating popcorn, muttering, “Let’s see how she handles this one.” But here’s the punchline: somehow, the performance happened. Not perfect, not polished, but raw and real and alive. The crowd clapped, the lights dimmed, and I realized that the goddess doesn’t always send miracles wrapped in gold light. Sometimes, she sends chaos and dares you to dance in it.

Lesson one: plan your work, then watch your plan burst into flames, and keep dancing anyway. Lesson two: have faith, not the Instagram-quote kind, but the trembling, teeth-gritting kind where you keep moving even when the ground shakes. Lesson three: the goddess walks with you—but only when you stop trying to walk like anyone else. She’s not your fairy godmother; she’s your shadow in the firelight, waiting for you to stop pretending you’re not divine.

Then came the talk. I thought, “Ah, this will be my redemption. My arena. My moment.” The universe must have choked on her coffee laughing. The familiar fear arrived—my loyal companion, that little gremlin whispering, “You’ll fail, you’ll freeze, you’ll forget everything.” But this time, I didn’t fight it. I just bent my knees, as though in reverence to the invisible goddess who loves a good show, and began to speak. Words spilled out—not from the careful, overthinking part of me, but from somewhere deeper, older. The goddess didn’t whisper; she hijacked my vocal cords. People listened, nodded, smiled, perhaps unaware that the person speaking had momentarily left the building and was floating somewhere above her own head, watching divinity do stand-up through her.

And then, because the universe loves a trilogy, there was the workshop on fear and phobia. Now, fear and I go way back—we’re practically roommates. I didn’t plan this workshop with precision. I approached it like a gambler with a half-broken deck, shuffling faith and foolishness. The night before, I had no grand script, just a vague promise to myself: show up, breathe, and let the goddess handle the Wi-Fi connection between chaos and coherence. And she did. She walked by me again, with that infuriating smirk that says, “See? I told you so.” The participants laughed, cried, and left lighter than they came. I left too, a little more convinced that faith isn’t about certainty—it’s about surrendering your to-do list to the divine and watching what she does with it.

October has always been a trickster. It’s the witching month, when the air smells of endings and new beginnings wearing the same perfume. The trees shed their leaves as if to say, “Darling, you don’t need half the nonsense you’re carrying.” The moon gets bolder, the nights longer, and the goddess more talkative. She whispers through the wind, through the sudden cancellations, through the plans that unravel beautifully. And me? I’ve learned to laugh with her. To bow when life kicks me in the shins, to grin when the script burns, and to trust that maybe that’s the point.

Because the truth is, the goddess doesn’t walk with the ones who have it all figured out. She walks with the ones who stumble, who curse the sky, who show up trembling but still show up. She doesn’t bless perfection; she blesses persistence. And sometimes, when you think she’s abandoned you, she’s actually backstage, rearranging the props, making sure the spotlight hits you at the exact right moment.

So here we are—me, October, and the goddess—locked in this strange dance of faith and folly. I still don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and maybe that’s divine design. The universe doesn’t want my control; she wants my courage. And so, I plan my work, and I work my plan, and when both go spectacularly off-script, I laugh, bow, and let the goddess take her cue. After all, she’s never missed a performance.

This post was written for Blogchatter Half Marathon.