To Love and Let Go

by Rachel Brathen

  “What is that smell?” I finally asked.

  He was quiet. “It’s her,” he said after a moment of silence.

  “What do you mean, her?” I asked.

  “It’s Andrea.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Her things,” he said. “From the accident. They had to cut her dress open to operate. It’s covered in blood. They put it in a bag with her sweater and all of her bracelets and all her other things.”

  “And you have it . . . here? In the car?”

  “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

  We drove on in silence.

  Andrea’s house looked exactly the way I remembered it. Why did I think it would be any different? I handed Gabriel the keys, thinking he should be the first one in. When he pushed the door open, I saw his hands shake. We stepped inside. Everything was there except Andrea: the rug on the floor, the little couch by the window, dishes in the kitchen sink—a few glasses, a teacup. We cooked in that kitchen just days ago, I thought. She’d made a smoothie and I laughed at her because it came out almost black. “What the hell did you put in here?” I laughed. “Are you trying to poison me?” She threw a kitchen towel at my head. “It’s good for you! Just drink it!” I smiled faintly at the memory. How could it be that she was just here? And now she was gone.

  It was getting hard to breathe. I opened the kitchen door to let in some air. “Do you want to go upstairs?” I asked Gabriel. He was white as a ghost. “I can’t do it,” he said. We were quiet for a while. I could tell he was itching to leave. “Do you want to get the bag with her things?” I asked.

  Gabriel went out to the car and came back carrying a plastic bag marked “Medical Waste.” “Let’s do this outside,” I said. We walked out to the garden. Looking at the bag in front of me, I felt as if I were in some alternate universe. Surely this wasn’t real. I took a deep breath, opened the bag, and reached my hand inside. I grasped something and I pulled a long piece of fabric from the bag. It was Andrea’s dress, a light gray dress stained black with dried blood. Now my hands were the ones shaking. Slowly, I emptied the rest of the bag. Everything she wore on the day of the accident was there. Her dress, a sweater, some jewelry. It was all covered in blood. The last thing was her favorite necklace, a string of grayish-blue pearls that hung all the way down past her belly button. She loved that necklace—at Envision she wore it almost every day. The necklace was broken and the pearls lay scattered in the bottom of the bag. I took them out, one by one, and placed them on a log in the corner of the garden.

  Gabriel couldn’t take anymore.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Dennis is probably on his way. Are you okay to stay on your own?”

  Standing in Andrea’s garden brought me a strange sense of calm.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Gabriel looked at me but didn’t answer my question. “I’ll call you later,” he said.

  Gabriel left and I wandered back into the house. By then, the sky was turning a dusty yellow, bathing the kitchen in a gentle light. I decided to go upstairs. The stairs creaked under my weight. At the top of the staircase was Andrea’s altar, with her favorite crystals, stones, and gems. She would sit by the altar every day to meditate. I felt pulled to it like a magnet as I walked past and into her bedroom.

  The first thing that struck me when I walked into her room was how tidy it was. Everything was neatly organized and clean, and the bed was made with her favorite throw across the duvet. I’d never seen Andrea’s house so clean. She was a messy person, even messier than me. In the bathroom, her Envision Festival bracelet hung over a ledge by the shower. Mine was still on my wrist. I reached into the shower, took the bracelet, and held it against my own. Just as I did, I heard a car pull up. Dennis and Ringo were outside.

  The three of us settled into Andrea’s house. As the sun set we cooked dinner. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the dishes in the sink; her dishes, the ones she had used before she left home for the last time. I was too afraid to disrupt the things that she last touched, and everything that still echoed with remembrances of her. Of course, everything did. The house vibrated with her energy. A thought crossed my mind: I know her things are just objects. But these things—the dishes she left in the sink before getting in the car and heading to the beach—they feel so recent. I can imagine her having her tea and leaving the cup before rushing out the door. She probably thought she’d do the dishes when she got back. But she never came back. And now I’m here, trying to avoid a dish that’s not mine to clean.

  At the dinner table I sat in Andrea’s chair. Dennis sat in the one I normally used. We finished our meal and Dennis said he was ready for bed. It had been a long day. I almost stopped him when he headed into the shower. Wait! That’s her shower. She was the last one to shower there. It felt wrong for him to use it. She was the last one to step on those tiles and turn the hot-water knob. I felt as if Dennis touching it would break the connection to her, but I decided not to say anything. I knew I was being crazy. Not stepping into Andrea’s shower was not going to bring her back. Trying to keep her house frozen in time wouldn’t either. Dennis kissed me good night and took Ringo into the bedroom with him. I was happy he turned in early because a part of me wanted to sit alone by Andrea’s altar and just breathe. If I could only quiet my mind, maybe I’d be able to feel her, I thought. What if I can’t?

  Several candleholders were set up on the windowsill and half-burnt candles sat on the altar. I looked around the room for matches but couldn’t find any. With all of the candles scattered around, there have to be matches in the house, I thought. I checked everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. In all of the kitchen drawers. On the coffee table by the sofa. On every damn shelf. I knew there must be boxes of matches around! Andrea was always burning candles and incense and palo santo. She even occasionally smoked tobacco from a pipe, Native American style. Where are the goddamn matches? All I want to do is sit by this altar and pray! I couldn’t pray without candles! After frantically looking in every corner of the house with no luck, something inside of me snapped. Tears burned in my eyes. “Andrea!” I screamed out loud. “Where are the fucking matches?”

  The moment the words left my mouth I felt a force turn my head to the left. It was extremely strange because I wasn’t the one turning my head; someone turned my head for me, forcefully. My eyes landed on a picture frame on a shelf—a photo of Osho. My photo. How had I not noticed it before? Osho was one of my spiritual teachers and someone whose teachings had deeply impacted my life. When I was living in Dominical, my mom brought a framed photo of Osho when she came to visit me, which I hung by my altar. When I moved to Aruba I left most of my things behind, including the Osho picture. I had no idea Andrea had taken it and kept it in her house. Gabriel told me later it had been there for so many years—I’d just never noticed it before. Lowering my gaze slightly, I saw something that almost made my heart jump out of my chest. A box of matches was sitting there, leaning against the picture frame. I opened it. There was one single match inside. I dropped to my knees in tears, clutching the matchbox to my heart. Andrea’s presence was so strong I could almost feel her arms around me. I was overcome with a sense of calm.

  Standing in front of the altar, I realized that I didn’t have to sit in formal meditation to feel Andrea. I didn’t need candles, or an altar, or special moments. She was there, with me. All the time.

  I moved past the altar and opened the door to the bedroom. There was a low cabinet on the floor and I spotted a candle sitting by some crystals next to Andrea’s mala beads. I sat down to light the candle, realizing I only had one chance to make it work. I struck the match along the side of the matchbox. After lighting the candle, I blew out the match but dropped it while the tip was still a golden amber color. It had disappeared under the cabinet. Crap, I thought. Not only was the match still hot, I wanted to take it home with me. It was my first real connection to Andrea since she died. I had to retrieve it.

  I lay on the floor and
reached my arm under the cabinet to grab the match. When I did, I felt something else there. I pulled it out: a tiny statue of Mary Magdalene. Andrea had found her way back to her Catholic religion in the past year. We had talked about it at Envision a few weeks earlier. The concept of religion had always been foreign to me. Sweden is the most nonreligious country in the world, and I had no relationship to a church, Jesus, or the Bible. Andrea told me stories about Mary Magdalene, “the forgotten goddess.” She was proud that she had gotten back to the church; it had brought her closer to her mom. “I still prefer to meditate and sit in circle over going to church, but I’m starting to appreciate where I’ve come from,” she’d told me.

  Looking at the figurine in my hand, remembering our conversation from a few weeks earlier, I felt the same pull as I had when my head turned toward the picture of Osho. This time, though, my hand was being pulled farther under the cabinet. There is something else there, I thought.

  I lengthened my reach and my hand grasped a box. I pulled it out. It was green cardboard, beautifully adorned with flowers and doodles, and far too pretty to be hidden. My hands trembled as I opened the lid. It took a minute for me to figure out what I was looking at. It was my handwriting. Displayed neatly at the top of the box was our wedding invitation with Andrea’s name written on the envelope. Andrea had guided me there.

  Seeing our wedding invitation, I started to cry again and now I couldn’t stop. As I lay on the floor, clutching the invitation, the reality of what happened sank in for the first time. Andrea was gone. She wouldn’t be there to hold my hand on my wedding day. She wasn’t going to be by my side when I said “I do” to the love of my life. She was dead. Falleció. I would never again be able to look into her dancing eyes or braid her thick brown hair. The realization hit me like a punch in the gut and I started wailing. The sound was that of a wounded animal; my soul was missing its mate.

  I heard Ringo barking and I came to; Dennis was holding me. “Breathe,” he said. “You have to breathe.” I couldn’t get a deep breath. There was no air. Andrea took it all with her. “You have to breathe!” Dennis said. “Breathe!” Finally, I was able to draw air into my lungs. I collapsed in Dennis’s arms and cried until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  I was awakened the next morning by the sound of a bird’s chirping. My head was throbbing. The green box with our wedding invitation was still open on the floor. I looked inside. Under the invitation were mementos from our time together at Envision Festival. The box was meant for me. I could tell. I piled everything back inside and stood to leave. That’s when I saw it: there, in the corner of the room, was her yoga mat—the same gray mat she got for my retreat in Costa Rica in December. Andrea had been so excited to be there with me. She had been on retreats with me before but never joined an entire one. On the first day she grabbed me on the way to the yoga deck after breakfast. “Look what I got!” she cried. In her arms was the brand-new mat. “My own yoga mat! Aren’t you proud of me?”

  I rolled out the mat on the wood floor. It was a little dirty, like she’d just used it at the beach. I could see exactly where Andrea’s hands had been in Child’s Pose. I wasn’t sure whether the angry scars from my surgery would allow me to do a single pose, but standing in her footprints, I started to move. Breathing deeply, I lifted my hands over my head. Soon I found my way into Downward-Facing Dog. As I aligned my body with my breath, I could feel the heaviness of my body. The weight of my heart, the pain; it felt unbearable. But somehow, I also knew it wasn’t—because there I was, in it, feeling it all. Years of yoga practice had taught me just that: the art of breathing through discomfort. Of sitting with pain. Of breathing in to the tight corners of my body and making space wherever I need it. I realized, this is it. This is the point of all that practice. So that I could be here, right now, moving through this pain without having to escape.

  Eventually I found myself in Savasana, resting my head where I knew Andrea had rested hers so many times before. Tears streaming down my face, I held my hands to my broken heart. Lying there on her mat, I knew what I had to do. I had to let myself feel. The only way out was through.

  let go

  11

  * * *

  RELEASE

  It was soon time to say good-bye to Costa Rica. As we were leaving Andrea’s house, I remembered the beads I had left on the log when emptying the bag from the hospital. I walked out into the garden and picked one up. Looking at it I saw it was actually closer to pale blue than gray. Closing my fist around it, I could see Andrea dancing, her necklace swaying as she moved. “Good-bye,” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.” I put the bead in my pocket and left.

  Dennis and I embarked on a yoga tour I had scheduled long ago, with workshops in Brazil, then back in Costa Rica, and finally Sweden. I felt an intense need to carry on, partly because I was terrified of what might happen if I wasn’t in perpetual motion. I was spending more time on airplanes than I was with my feet on the ground, by my own choosing. Still, I was so tired I couldn’t think straight. My skin broke out, my hair was oily, my hands were dry, my neck was stiff, and my stomach was tied in knots. But I was alive. My heart was beating. I was going through the most difficult time of my life, and I allowed myself to feel my feelings. When I needed to cry, I cried. When I wanted to laugh, I did. Most of the time I felt like a shaking leaf being blown around by the wind. But the wind was powerful and strong, and it was blowing with intention. I knew that letting go of control was how I would heal. I would let the uncertainty of the wind take me where I needed to go. One day at a time.

  Neither Dennis nor I had ever been to Brazil before. I had committed to two workshops—one in Rio, the other in São Paulo. Both were sold out. I thought about canceling, but hundreds of people were coming. It would be a challenge to teach the classes. Not only was I in a fragile emotional state, they were handstand workshops and I hadn’t even been able to do a proper vinyasa since my surgery, much less hold myself up in the air on my hands. But I wanted to go. I had to stay busy. Canceling didn’t feel like an option.

  We were late getting to the airport, which was unusual for us. Check-in had closed by the time we got to the counter and we had to plead for them to let us go through. “The plane is about to embark so if I were you I’d hurry up,” the man at the check-in cautioned.

  We had luggage, so Dennis told me to run ahead alone. “Hold the plane!” he called after me. “I’m right behind you!” I ran through security and to our gate. They were already paging us when Dennis called to tell me he wasn’t allowed to pass through security because his US visa had expired. We had a layover in the United States and they wouldn’t let him on without it.

  There I was, about to make an eighteen-hour trip to a strange country with no Dennis and no luggage. I traveled alone all the time, but after Andrea died I felt too vulnerable to be on my own. I couldn’t go to the grocery store by myself, let alone fly to Atlanta, change planes, and cross an entire continent.

  I sank into my seat and tried to stay positive, but all I felt was panic. I started crying, and suddenly felt the walls of the plane shrinking. I couldn’t breathe. What was I doing here? I was about to stand up to try to get off the plane when, suddenly, a sea of glittering light appeared all around me. It was everywhere—on the ceiling, the wall, the back of the seat in front of me. It stopped me right in my tracks, and for a moment, all I could see were the sparkles of light surrounding me. My panic subsided and I felt a warm, almost glowy feeling inside. I knew this light, I realized. It reminded me of the light that surrounded me when I jumped naked into the ocean after my surgery. Andrea. I felt her. It took me a while to realize that the light was bouncing off my engagement ring. But it was Andrea. I was sure of it. I said a silent prayer. Thank you for showing me the light in the most difficult moments. I had no idea if Dennis would make it to Brazil. All I knew was, in that moment, I was okay. I could take another breath. The plane took off and I opened my computer to read e-mails. Most were from people with messages about lov
e and loss.

  Reading them, I knew: I was not alone.

  I landed in Rio, and Dennis, strangely, through some miracle, was already there. In his desperation, he managed to find a direct flight straight from Aruba to São Paulo that we didn’t know existed and then he took a puddle jumper to Rio. We landed at the same time. It felt so serendipitous. Our hotel was on the ocean and we spent the first evening drinking caipirinhas and drunkenly making out in the middle of the street. I told him how I’d almost had a panic attack on the plane but that Andrea saved me. Holding his hand, walking down cobblestoned streets, I felt almost normal.

  My class was the next morning. Some 250 people attended. It was my first big class since Andrea’s accident. Dennis demonstrated the yoga poses for me since I still couldn’t hold a handstand. I found myself thinking that sometimes it was hard being me. Everyone showed up expecting me to fix something for them—as if I held the keys to whatever they were looking for. Many were followers on Instagram and I was an inspiration for them. Some found their way to yoga through my posts. It had changed their lives and they credited me. But it wasn’t me. I’m just like them, a regular person just trying to find her way.

  Still, when I walked into the room, everyone stared. Some gasped, like they couldn’t believe I was real. “Oh my God,” said one young woman. “I can’t believe this is happening! You’re real! And Dennis! Hi! I’m sorry, this must be so weird for you. I feel like I know you so well, but you don’t even know who I am.” I smiled and gave her a hug. “No, it’s not weird at all!” I said, even though she was right. It was weird. “It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you so much for coming.” I was being genuine; but I was also lying. It was strange, but it wasn’t strange—I was used to doing it all the time: hug strangers and tell them it’s not strange that they know my entire life, and now I’ve traveled across the world to teach them yoga, and they have spent money to be there, without a clue about whether I know what I’m talking about. It was a bit odd, but also awesome, the life I had managed to create for myself.