​For a number of years I have been partial to Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. Actually, destruction is just one aspect of Kali; she is also known as the goddess of time and change. A literal translation of her name is “the black one”. And in many texts she is referred to as “she who destroys.”  The Kalika Purana describes Kali as “possessing a soothing dark complexion, as perfectly beautiful, riding a lion, four-armed, holding a sword and blue lotuses, her hair unrestrained, body firm and youthful.“
I’ve been in many yoga classes where the teacher emphasizes opening your heart center, letting in light, and emanating peace and acceptance. And trust me, I think, we, the world needs as much of this attitude as we can get. But we also need balance. In even the most enlightened and gentle creatures there is darkness and aggression. It may be buried, repressed, or completely ignored but I believe it’s there in all of us. I believe we need to honor our dark natures and that it is important to recognize that without destruction we can’t have rebirth or new life or fresh energy.
I have been known to struggle with my dark side and my aggressive nature. I had this idea that yoga teachers should not have darkness or aggression. When I taught yoga, at times, I felt fraudulent in my teaching of yoga – talking about peace and light ALL the time. Let me put it this way: I was meditating once and as Rod Stryker’s voice was relaxing me into greatness, out of nowhere, I had a vision of someone breaking into our house and me blasting them away with a shotgun. 

Born April Winn Ferry, 24th of April, 1974. Miami Beach, FL. When I go back and try to piece together the details of my arrival, the data is sketchy. The hospital seems to have been torn down. My mother is dead now, so of no use in data collection. My father, as is the way with fathers in the 1970s, wasn't actually there. My father recalls a phone call in the wee hours of the morning. A doctor on the other end of the line saying your daughter has been born but come quickly as she is unlikely to live through the day. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, pulls on pants and a tee shirt. He's 22 years old with one son that he ushers off to grandparents. He gets to the hospital and doesn't remember much except that there was a problem with my lungs and severe jaundice. We know the outcome as I am sitting here writing this. I know how to make an entrance.
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By the time I am 4, my parents’ marriage dissolves in a pile of broken dishes and slammed doors. I'm not sure of the extent of my mother's drug use at this point but if I had to place bets, well, I'd bet it was party-time most of the time.

A year. How does it feel to you looking back over a year? Fast or slow? Most of my formative years blur together. Except that year. Five years old. A new father. The memories are slow and torturous. Like an old VHS tape stretched to its final life playing everything in slow motion, grainy and garbled. A bedroom door creeps open, a dark figure looms. My brother cries as hands grip and shake him leaving clearly defined marks. My mother begs from a fetal position on the floor as another fist slams her face and another foot kicks her side. And then it gets bad. She flees. We flee.

Railroad tracks slick under foot as we walk. In search of refuge. A friend on the other side of the tracks. The right side of the tracks. Embrace. Tears stream down my mother's bruised and swollen face. A friend telling her she needs to leave for good, this time. Five minutes later fists pound on the door. I will kill you bitch. Just like I killed that fucking dog of yours. The dog I watched him kill through the cracks in the blinds of my bedroom. Bert and Ernie clutched to my chest. I  have lost the name of the dog over the years. A dalmatian. Maybe this is why I really hate the movie 101 Dalmatians.