When I was a kid bridges scared me to death. Once or twice a year my family traveled to Huntington, West Virginia to see my grandparents and when we got to the West Huntington Bridge over the Ohio River, I closed my eyes and held my breath for as long as I could, praying we'd make it to the other side without falling into the rushing water. Of course, we never did, but that didn't stop my racing heart, not even when I made the trip by myself as an adult. For decades I suffered through various levels of terror in the journey across bodies of water where I had no other choice but to keep moving forward.
In 2008 I traveled by myself across the United States from Ohio to Big Sur, California. In the process I passed over countless overpasses and bridges on my way to what I thought was a new life out west. I held my breath across every single one, sometimes consciously, other times as a reflex, but always both frightened and excited about what was to come.
After eight months of living life on the edge of the country where everything constantly changed, I found myself heading home, but this time, not alone. While at Esalen Institute, I worked in the garden where we provided nearly 75% of the produce served in the dining hall. Our cat, Junior, disappeared that summer, so in September we adopted a new "garden kitten" I named Jhoti. Even though she never met a stranger, Jhoti soon became my little shadow, following me from the greenhouse to the flower beds to my hut on the farm where she slept night after night next to my pillow, rubbing her head on mine to wake me up in the morning.
When I made the difficult decision to leave two months later, Jhoti came with me. She cried for about fifteen minutes, but after we crossed the Bixby Creek Bridge, Jhoti settled down and for five long days was my constant companion as we journeyed into an unknown future. When we arrived in Ohio on a cold, dark November night I was nearly broke, unsure of what I would do next, and emotionally worn out from the past three years of trying to create positive change only to be met time and again with countless roadblocks. As I slowly rebuilt my life in Ohio, Jhoti remained my little shadow as I put one foot in front of the other, precariously crossing the bridge from one stage of my life into the next.
Jhoti was there when I taught ten years of yoga classes in my home studio. She was there when I wrote novels and blogs and essays. She was there over the years when I welcomed new kittens and when I mourned the loss of two cats. Jhoti was there when I met Steve, when I struggled through the first three years of our relationship, when he moved into the house in 2019. She was there when I made the difficult choice to let go of my yoga business and go back to work in the community. For nearly fourteen years she watched me move through transition after transition, a consistent if not-always-silent witness to a life constantly in flux.
Until this past April.
For the past year or so, I've settled into a new normal. Life has become predictable, consistent, sustainable. Thankfully so because Jhoti needed a lot more care as she aged. She was on multiple medications, needed to eat at certain intervals and became much more needy as she slowly lost her hearing and suffered debilitating arthritis. She often sat perched on my lap or in Steve's man cave when he played acoustic guitar (which she loved). Throughout February and March, she aged quickly and by early April I knew I had to let her cross one more bridge, but this time without me.
Because of Covid protocols, only one person could be with Jhoti at the vet, so Steve waited in the car. It was a busy day, so after we were settled into a room, Jhoti and I had time to be alone together. I played an acoustic guitar station on Pandora radio and it seemed to soothe her. I thought about the night before when, instead of being agitated as she had been for weeks, Jhoti laid by my pillow, rubbing her head on mine as I stayed awake all night, knowing what the next day would bring.
When the moment finally came when Jhoti peacefully slipped away, an acoustic version of "And So It Goes" played in the background. It's one of my favorite songs, so it struck a deep chord in my heart. As Jhoti crossed the rainbow bridge, I silently sang the lyrics, And this is why my eyes are closed...it's just as well for all I've seen...and so it goes, and so it goes...and you're the only one who knows." In realizing how quickly fourteen years could pass, I thought of all the time Jhoti had been there as I made my way through the private evolution from who I was in Big Sur into who I am becoming now.
One of the tenants of a yoga practice is Aparigraha, or non-attachment. Some people interpret it as being "non-greedy" or letting go of desire. Over the years, my experience of Aparigraha has evolved from knowing that everything I own will someday belong to someone else to also knowing that every relationship I have will one day end. As Alanis Morissette sings in "No Pressure Over Cappuccino", You will learn to lose everything, we are temporary arrangements.
Losing Jhoti was inevitable, and I knew that from the moment I adopted her. But what I wasn't prepared for was the flood of realization that her death unearthed. The cycle of life moves us ever onward, and we have no other choice but to keep moving forward. At fifty-five I realize that for the rest of my life I'll be letting go. I've crossed the bridge into the reality that, while it's incredibly difficult, if I live long enough, I will lose my mother, my partner, my friends. Eventually, I will lose everything.
Time and loved ones are the only things we cannot recover. In my life I've lost money and gained it back. I've lost my health and got well again. I've lost hope and somehow found my way back to faith. But I will never be able to go back in time. I will never be able to hug my grandfather or relive my thirties or have a child of my own. Still, I can be grateful for the lessons Granddaddy taught by example. I can embody the hard-won self-respect I earned twenty-five years ago. I can love every child (human or otherwise) that I am blessed to have in my life, all the while knowing that all of this too shall pass.
At the end of season one of Six Feet Under, a woman asks Nate, “Why do people have to die?" He responds, “To make life important. None of us know how long we've got, which is why we have to make each day matter." Somehow, accepting the fact that this life is impermanent, every day becomes more sacred. By practicing Aparigraha I can let go of what has been and move on to the next day, all the while staying more present to the value each moment holds.
Life is more precious when I practice nonattachment, for it allows me to stay in the moment, no matter how I feel. For I've come to know that no matter the grief, anger, joy, sorrow, or happiness, nothing ever lasts.
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| Jhoti peacefully traveling with me from Big Sur to Toledo, 2008 |
