Taught class in the morning. Last class.
Listened to the sounds of the jungle for the last time in a while before hugging the retreat yogis goodbye and then packed up the car and drove to Dominical.
I feel energized.
It’s a roller coaster and I’ve had times when I’ve been nervous to teach because my heart is so shaky I don’t know what words are going to come out of my mouth if any and in waves everything just hurts.
It hurts it hurts it hurts.
But I’ve taught good classes. My heart could take it. I’ve rallied.
I’ve cried in every Savasana but it’s been silent and not overwhelming. I’ve seen all our old friends in town and we’ve cried and talked and told our stories and laughed and felt your presence. Everyone I talk to feels so much, even people we haven’t seen or spent time with in so long.
When you left everyone’s lives stopped, not just mine.
I’m not alone. It’s so hard but it’s getting lighter and overall this week has been so healing. I am grateful.
So I sit down at a table just now and it’s right next to the room we stayed in that one time when we rescued the chickens. We named the chickens BJ and CJ after Barney and Christian and we laughed until our faces couldn’t take it anymore.
One of them pooped on your hand and I took a picture and even just thinking of it now I almost laugh out loud. We swam with our clothes on that day and took the puppies to the waterfall. And now I’m sitting next to our room but you’re not here and I want to write you and tell you what it’s like but I know you can’t write me back.
And in the middle of this memory right now when I can’t decide if I’m going to cry or laugh, they start playing our song. Shakira’s Antología.
And I cry but I’m smiling.
Us driving down the Costanera belching out this song off the top of our lungs. Always. I still know all the words. I miss you so fucking much.
The shaman whispered to me during the cacao ceremony, like he was letting me in on a secret and I was the only one allowed to know; “She is not dead”. She is not dead. She is not dead. I’m thinking now, maybe you are not dead. Just dancing in another shape.
Nothing is ever lost. Only transformed.
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Editor: Renée Picard
Photo: courtesy Rachel Brathen
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