I realized everyone on the staff was trained in managing trauma and panic. The woman knew what to say. By the time someone knocked on my door I had calmed down a little. I was embarrassed. I should have dealt with this on my own, I thought.
When I opened the door, Shubhaa and Turiya were standing there. I burst into tears. They sat me down and Shubhaa rubbed my back. “Explain to us what happened,” Turiya said. She was the creator of the process—the teacher of teachers. I looked for words, but what spilled out were words I hadn’t realized were there. “My mom did Path of Love,” I said. “And then she did the therapist training with you last year. And in the middle of it she tried to commit suicide. You couldn’t help her, and you let her go out into the world to help other people when she is the one who needs help. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any of this.” I was completely stunned by what came out of my mouth. I didn’t even know I had those feelings. They must have been buried deep.
Turiya spoke first. “Trust is the most fundamental component of this process,” she said. “Without it, you are just out at sea on your own. Trust is your buoy. It’s how we navigate through these difficult waters together. It is not strange that these feelings have surfaced. You are very brave for sharing them with us.”
She went on to tell me about my mother’s training. “She did not tell us she had tried to commit suicide—we didn’t know,” she said. “It came out in the middle of an intimate circle; she hadn’t notified me in advance. We took it very seriously. Suicide is a very, very serious thing. Had we known she was suicidal prior to applying, she would never have been accepted to the program. But there we were, in the midst of it. Sometimes life happens that way. You do the best you can with the cards you are dealt. We did, your mother did. As are you, right now.” This was all news to me. “I am so worried about her,” I said. “And now she is out there trying to help people. And it terrifies me. And I thought, what if she became this way because of the training? Not only did you not help her, but she became even worse.”
Turiya put a hand on my shoulder. “You and your mother are on very different paths,” she said. “For some, awakening is a slower process. It is important that you distinguish your process from your mother’s. And I ask you to trust us. You are supported here. You are held. Your mother’s path is hers, not yours.”
“That’s what happened today in the group session,” I said. “I just touched a little sliver of the reality of her suicide attempt and I had to vomit. It’s like it’s stuck in my body. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”
“Just the fact that you are here, now, asking for help, is a huge step,” Shubhaa said. “This pain is real, the fear is real. It sits in your body. But it’s also old. It’s not playing out in the here and now. You need to rid yourself of the old, close the wound, and manifest a life where you are independent of it. Where you know, deeply, that your mother’s life doesn’t lie in your hands. What a weight to carry! Aren’t you tired?”
I started to cry. “Exhausted,” I said.
“Are you okay to sleep on your own? We can have one of the assistants sleep in here with you if you’d like.”
“I’m alright,” I said. “I trust the process.” As I said it, I knew it was true. I trusted the process. I was grateful for them.
I went back to bed and said a prayer.
Dear Universe,
Please help me face this pain so I can heal it. I don’t want it to dictate my life anymore. Please help me get through this and help keep me as one, whole person.
For the first time I felt like I could speak the truth without blame or resentment. I had spent my life holding my mother’s pain. I had to put half the earth between us for me to find my own way—for me to find myself. When I was with her, I had to dull my shine because I felt like there was never enough for her. I made myself small when actually I was a bright, shining star. Who gave her the right to be @yoga_mum on Instagram? Yoga, Yoga Girl—that was my identity. She didn’t even do yoga! It was crazy, really. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life weighed down by my fear of her taking her own life. I had to start living for me.
I went to the next meditation with the overwhelming need to have my own space. Standing in the middle of the room, I stretched my arms straight out, palms up, as if to say, “Stop!” I envisioned a force field around me, my subtle energy setting a strong but gentle boundary for myself. No one could cross it unless I allowed them to. I visualized my mother on the other side and me, speaking loudly, telling her, “No! No, you can’t be ‘Yoga mom.’ No, you can’t go everywhere I go. No, you can’t make your children my responsibility. No, no, no!”
Leaving the room, I felt strong and whole. “You’re glowing—like a star,” Shubhaa whispered. “Like a star.” I felt like a star. Like I was shining.
• • •
Toward the end of the retreat we did something called a Peace Walk. The idea was to walk until we were able to clearly state our longing to the universe. Everyone around me had epiphanies. I walked and walked but nothing came. Maybe I’d had all of my epiphanies earlier in the week, I thought. How many realizations about life can a person have in such a short time? I continued walking, but something wasn’t right. I felt heavy and tired again.
I realized that Rafia was walking alongside me. He took my hand. “You have to put her down,” he said. I knew who he meant. I was still carrying the weight of my mother. “She’s small, but she’s heavy,” he said. “I can’t put her down,” I said. Tears sprang to my eyes. “If I do, she . . . she . . .” “She, what?” Rafia asked. “She might die.” Saying it out loud was terrifying. “It must be exhausting, feeling responsible for her,” Rafia said. “And you do it out of love, of course. But are you really helping her?”
I didn’t know what he meant. “You love her so much—you want her to stay alive,” he said. “To live a long life. But sometimes, if we’ve never been on our own two feet, we don’t know that we are capable to deal with life ourselves.” Is that what I’ve done? By holding her and worrying and caring for the whole family and being the fixer and the rescuer?
We continued to walk. “She is in charge of her own life,” Rafia said. “Don’t take her power away—don’t trick yourself into thinking you can take her power away. What she does with her life is her business. Not yours.”
Anger bubbled up in my throat. “She doesn’t know how to care for herself,” I said. “If it wasn’t for me, she would be dead.”
Rafia stopped and looked at me. “Who made you God?” I looked into his eyes. His eyes were serious, and warm. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you just put her down?” he asked. I closed my eyes. I knew the answer. “She could die,” I said. Rafia’s eyes were piercing mine. “So. Let her die then,” he said. Let her die? I couldn’t speak. “It’s her life,” Rafia said. “It’s her decision. You are not God—you don’t decide who lives and who dies. You can try, but it’s not going to give you anything other than exhaustion and pain. Let her go. Let her live her own life. Trust that she can care for herself. Let her live. Or let her die. Let her be.” He squeezed my hand and left my side.
I kept walking. Let her die? Another truth. I knew he was right. If letting her go meant letting her die, then that’s what I had to do. It was a hard, hard pill to swallow. My mother was too heavy to carry. That’s why I was so tired. I couldn’t carry her anymore. I had to put her down. I had to let her go. I dropped to my knees.
Dear God,
Please take the burden that is my mother off my shoulders. I can’t carry her anymore. Please keep her safe. Keep her whole. Please help her find her own light. I am letting go now. Amen.
I don’t normally like the term God—I always say Spirit, or Universe, or Love. But God sounded right in my prayer. I need space, God. From her. I can’t keep her in my life. Not right now. Wherever this process leads me, I need to get there on my own. I need to find out what it’s like to live just for me. I feel clear and calm about this decision. I have let go. I am done.
>
I felt a presence of warmth fill my heart. Andrea. She was here. I’d longed for her. I saw her in front of me, laughing, shining, and I realized: everything I ever wanted to be I saw in her. She was so very much herself—she was all the sweet juiciness I always longed for in myself. She had all the shine I never felt I was worthy of. Being with her brought out the most beautiful version of me. She never needed a Path of Love—she lived it. That’s part of why I missed her so much: because being with her reminded me of something I always felt was missing. By shining her light I felt I had permission to do the same. I missed her so much. The warmth around my heart intensified. I reminded myself: the pain is big because the love was big.
I walked out of Path of Love after eight days of the most intense, heart-opening healing I had ever experienced and I was very clear about what I had to do. I needed to separate from my mom at least for a while. I didn’t know what it meant, or how long it would last. I just knew I needed space.
When I turned on my phone for the first time and went to social media, the first thing that popped up was a post from her. While I was away she had changed her Instagram name—she was no longer @yoga_mum. I couldn’t believe it. All on her own—I hadn’t had contact with anyone.
My mom had sent me many messages while I was away. It took me two days to work up the courage to call. When we finally spoke, she sounded nervous, like she knew what was coming.
“Why did you change your Instagram name?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just had this strange realization . . . Was it strange that I tried to be yoga mom? I mean, yoga is your thing. You are Yoga Girl. I don’t even like yoga! I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”
My heart softened. While I was away working on myself, she had been doing some work, too.
I explained that I needed space, and for us not to be in contact for a while. I could tell I was breaking her heart, but it had to be done. I was doing this for me. “I don’t know how long it will be,” I said. “I just need space to figure myself out, and I can’t do it together with you.”
I think on some level she understood. It wasn’t about her personally—it was about our past together and the heavy energy that sat there. It was about my wounds, my journey, and the changes I had to make for me. Although we’d struggled so much in our past, there was so much love there. I didn’t want our challenges to overcloud the love that had always been so present between us. She had done her absolute best. I loved her deeply. But finally, for the first time in my life, I loved myself more.
21
* * *
THE BEGINNING
Seeing Dennis’s face when I returned home from Path of Love was the most beautiful thing. My soul mate. My love. I told him everything I’d learned. Things I’d never told him before, things I’d been ashamed of, my mistakes, my struggles. I shared it all. We cried together and afterward drove to a secluded beach on the north shore. We made love there and then I lay with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, tears streaming down my cheeks. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I’m just so happy.” It was true. I had so much to be grateful for. My life was so full. For the first time in my life, I felt completely whole.
I woke up in the middle of the night two weeks later with my breasts aching. I didn’t have to count back the days to know that I’d gotten pregnant that afternoon on the beach. I didn’t have to look back over my life to know the healing that had to take place for that moment to happen.
Dennis and I were overjoyed. I thought I would be terrified, but I wasn’t. I felt ready. Everything was so serendipitous. So perfect. I knew it was a girl.
We decided to name her Lea, the name I’d dreamed of for my daughter since I was a little girl. In the Bible, Lea and Rachel were sisters. I always wanted a sister when I was little, someone to share secrets with and whisper under the covers to at night. Dennis loved the name, but if we had a boy? he wondered. I didn’t need to wait for the ultrasound—I knew it was a girl.
From the moment I found out I was pregnant I was convinced the baby would be born on the day of Andrea’s passing. I did the math in my head—we conceived in the beginning of June, so nine months ahead . . . The date would fall somewhere at the end of February or the beginning of March. Andrea died March 10. Something inside of me just clicked when I made the connection; I felt absolutely relieved. It made total sense! Of course the baby would be born then! The midwives gave me a due date of February 28 and told me “babies come in their own time,” and that going so far overdue was rare and highly unusual and to not get my head too wrapped around a specific day. I didn’t listen to them—they didn’t know the pain and the miracles I’d seen over the past three years. They didn’t know Andrea, they didn’t know us. But I knew: March 10 was the date. Finally, the darkest day of my life would be transformed into something light. Death would become birth. All was happening in divine order.
The pregnancy started off with some nausea, but after that everything came easy. I started feeling a reverence for my body that I’d never experienced before. I always had a deep connection to my body and felt both strong and flexible thanks to a decade of intense yoga practice; I could handstand with ease and while flowing from pose to pose on the mat I’d have moments when I felt like I was flying—I loved, loved my body. But being pregnant brought on an entirely different kind of appreciation. I couldn’t just “do” things—tricky arm balances, dance, run, hug—I could create life. Me! Creating a human being! The thought was mind-boggling. I started gaining weight and it was wonderful. I understood what people meant when they spoke about “pregnancy glow”—it’s not just the beauty of creating life but the inner glow that comes from taking part in something so sacred and so ancient it connects us to the dawn of time. I was nauseous and dizzy and my boobs hurt, but I’d never felt more beautiful. I remembered the cacao shaman’s words to me from many years before: “When you have a daughter, she won’t carry any past pain with her in life. The pain your family has suffered for generations ends with you.” When you have a daughter. A daughter. Dennis wasn’t convinced (he thought maybe we’d have a boy), and we hadn’t even had the gender-revealing ultrasound yet. But I knew. A part of me wished for the baby to carry some of Andrea’s spirit with her. “What if the baby is Andrea, coming back to us?” I asked Dennis one day early in the pregnancy. He didn’t like the sound of that. “No,” he said. “That’s not how this works. Maybe you can talk to Andrea through the baby, but the baby is her own little being.” I accepted it, but secretly hoped meeting the baby would be like meeting my best friend again. It wasn’t until I got further along in the pregnancy and began truly tapping into the spirit growing inside of me that I understood that Dennis was right. This little girl was entirely her own little person—of course she was! I could already feel her personality, her heart, her soul. She was feisty, strong, stubborn—a lot like me—and also calm, sweet, patient . . . a lot like Dennis. This wasn’t the reincarnation of Andrea, however beautiful (and slightly insane) that thought was. This baby was, well, Poppy. We’d started calling her our little poppy seed, since that was the size she was when we found out we were pregnant. The name stuck, and for the remainder of the pregnancy we called her Poppy.
A few months later, my mom came to Aruba to visit. She’d booked the tickets before I went to Path of Love and asked if it was still okay to come. Yes, I said, but she had to find her own place to stay. I wondered if I was being harsh. We hadn’t spoken for months. I hadn’t told her about the baby. We didn’t tell anyone. It was too early; she was still our secret.
Mom arrived with Maia and I went to see them. I wanted to see how I felt. A part of me missed my mother deeply. I missed laughing with her, but I wasn’t ready to go back to what was before.
She seemed happy and calm. She told me she’d joined AA. “I’m sober now,” she said. That took me by surprise. She drank, sure, but I never saw her as an alcoholic. “I had a wake-up call,” she said. “It was the day after you finished Path of Lov
e and you still hadn’t called me,” she said. “I knew since you didn’t call me right away, that you had had realizations that were going to lead you away from me. It was so painful. I drank a lot that night, went out with my girlfriends, and in the middle of the night I was awoken by the sound of a loud voice. ‘Enough,’ it said. ‘You need to be fully present now. Enough.’ That day, I went to my first meeting.” I did the math in my head. That was the same day we conceived the baby. Could it be . . . ?
My thoughts were interrupted by my sister. “Let’s swim,” she said. Maia looked healthy. Normally, I would have peppered her with questions about her life and Mom’s, then offered to help with whatever was happening, but I didn’t. Maia was my sister, not my daughter. I loved her and cared for her, but I wasn’t going to allow anything to become my burden. We swam, then floated for a while, looking at the sky. “Things are actually really good at home,” Maia told me. “Something has shifted. There is something about AA. I think it’s doing something. She is different. Calmer.” I smiled. “That’s good,” I said. I wanted my mother to be well. If AA was the way, I supported it. Just then, my mother walked out into the water. “Can I join you?” she asked. She looked so little, but so grown-up. I wonder if she knows I’ve let her go, I thought. “I’m pregnant,” I said instead. “You’re what?” “I’m pregnant.” My mom looked at me. Maia took my hand. All three of us started to cry. My mother hugged me tightly. Feeling her arms around me, I exhaled with relief. Somehow I knew then, there: everything was going to be okay.
To Love and Let Go Page 24
