I watched.
I watched as her chest rose and fell, abruptly, un-rhythmically. There was no method to the madness that was breaking her heart. She had covered her face with a towel, and her hands would move from her lower abdominal wall to her sternum, to her covered eyes, touch down, and then as if rejected, move on, like a light feather lost in the wind. Where do I place my loving hands now? Where do they go? Her body, overtaken, rocked, quivering with cry.
Everyone else was breathing, laying perfectly still, peaceful in his or her savasana. For those of you who don’t know, savasana is the final resting pose in yoga-asana. Lying on the back, arms and legs spread at 45 degrees, the student closes his or her eyes and soaks in the practice. It’s the last posture. It’s called corpse pose in English, not only because of the position of the body, but also for its ability to prepare one for the ultimate relaxation: death. Where as in the west, death has a macabre flavor; in yogic tradition death is the most important moment of life.
And here she was, undoubtedly dying.
I could recognize it so clearly, because I myself had been here, not too long ago.
I’d cried in every savasana, and prayed that no one could smell the rotting of my old, or sense the violence of the way I’d gone. I’d gone, swept away by the Tsunami of Him. Some rivers can’t be stopped and despite 28 years of calculated effort to build the Great Wall of Mona, I was taken by love unworldly and beautiful. I was left with little choice, little reason, little logic. I closed my eyes, dropped my head, and tried to not resist nature’s force.
The wave.
It came.
Love.
Abruptly.
It left.
Closed the door, and turned off the lights.
Wait.
Come back.
The darkness.
