Kittybird

Straddling the living and the spiritual world is both uncomfortable and soothing.  Although raised with certain beliefs, I am currently not someone who believes in Heaven or Hell, a Christian God, or ghosts.  My logical mind can rationalize these concepts away.  Yet, what I DO believe in is the energy that lives within our cells; the energy that makes us who we are.  In death, where does this energy go?  Is it in the people who love you?  Does it return to the air?

Sitting in a small room, with both the living and the dying huddled together, there is a tangible vibe that floats around.  Breath is mingled, and emotions are speaking to one another, outside of words.  Where are you going?  Can you hear us?  When the time comes to leave, the people who are able to walk out of the room are forever changed.  And that’s okay.  When your cells get shaken by such a transformation, they can’t possible return to who they were.

As time moves on, continued losses will occur.  The doors to that spiritual world still feel cracked open.  I would believe anything I see before my eyes because anything is possible.  Emotions are still able to be communicated as they were in that room, and those bonds may continue on for some time.  Speaking with one’s eyes is quite effective, I have found.  The world continues to move slowly, as does my brain functioning.

Today is temporary.  Healing will continue.  Love will continue.  At some point, the doors will close, and the attachments will lessen.  More loss is coming, for sure.  I am surrounded by love and I am in pain, simultaneously.  Thank goodness for connections, listening ears, and shared experiences, as the world of the living pulls me back by the day.

Two weeks ago, I was someone who had not witnessed the transition from life to death.  This has now changed.

When you sit at the edge of a spiritual world, it can be difficult to return.  For weeks, we were slowly dying alongside her- not eating, not sleeping, and shutting down at her bedside.  My body stopped being hungry and thirsty, just as hers was doing, as well.  Time began to feel meaningless.  Other people and other responsibilities became less important.  The world moved on for others, while her room became our whole world.

As her breath began to slow, it was evident that death was near.  The energy in the room was tangible.  The electronics struggled against it.  Communication came only from her eyes.  Tears were falling from our eyes, but hers were clear.  Her exhales suddenly became sighs, and in her very last moments, stopped altogether.  She inhaled as she could, and with a smile, she just...stopped.

Sitting in that space with someone, both with the dying and the ones who continue on, creates a shift in everyone’s energy.  In witnessing this transition, one becomes a new person...a person who is intertwined with the souls of others in a significantly unique way.  Our bodies were already vulnerable to the spiritual world, as our neglect and our pain were working together to move us closer toward her.  After she died, our dying bodies remained in the room.  Even when it is expected and even when it is a relief, the very moment of death still feels as excruciating a loss as if it was a sudden surprise.  So, there you sit, at the edge of a spiritual world, without her presence on your side anymore.  Yet, you’re still there, and it can be a lonely place to be without her.

I don’t need to reframe this loss.  I don’t need to make sense of it.  My mind knows it makes sense.  I know we’ll all be okay.  But right now, we’re not, and that’s okay, too.  As my appetite begins to come back, and my sleep becomes more consistent, I am beginning to feel like a live person again.  As the tasks of arranging a memorial, cleaning out her apartment, and scattering her ashes come to a close in the coming month, there will be continued feelings of loss along the way.  That is to be expected.  As time moves on and healing continues, these losses will become more tolerable.

I am humbled.  I was privileged.  I am so very sad.

My love affair with yoga has been a journey spanning years.  There was a time in my mid-twenties where I saw yoga as the key to a perfect body.  The lean lines, coupled with the strength, of the practice surely lent itself well to bathing suit season.  Poses felt easy, and I felt trendy, and it never lasted.  Numerous times, it never lasted.

Two years ago, I tried again.  Mid-thirties, working almost 60 hours a week (on top of about 15 hours of travel per week), graduate school, and tired- emotionally and physically.  Tired of making decisions all day.  Tired of listening to people talk.  Tired of dealing with sensitive personalities.  Tired of not being home.  Tired of feeling last on my own list, even though my whole life was revolving around my own decisions.  Things weren’t bad.  In fact, there was reward and love all over my days.  I was just running on empty and I knew that there was going to be a limit.  So, instead of finding a therapist, I returned to a yoga practice- this time, for my mind, and not my body.

Today, I don’t know how I would have survived this past year without my yoga practice.  This awful past year.  Even at the worst times, when I stayed away for fear of a complete meltdown during the openness and peace of Shavasana, I knew that yoga was there for me.  I knew that my teachers, my community, and my peaceful mind were ready for me whenever I was ready to open up to them.  As the late summer days moved along, and my heart ached to be in that room again, I never felt scared or judged by my absence.  I trusted 100% that the ball was always in my court, and that my heart would let me know when it was time to return.

Thanksgiving, with nearly 70 other yogis, I was able to start the journey back toward peace.  Since then, I have been SO cognizant of how thankful and how connected I am to my practice and my community.  Every class is an opportunity to lift weight off of my shoulders and feel the smile in my heart.

On Monday, while in Baddha Konasana (Bound Angle pose), I looked down at my feet and had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for them.  These feet, that have always been with me, and have traveled with me for nearly 40 years.  These feet, that allow me to stand.  These feet, that are mine to protect.  Tears welled up in my eyes and suddenly, for the first time, I felt my brain thank my body, and make a promise to it to care for it and love it for all that it does.