4/9/2017 0 Comments two guardians, one weekI called my mother a week ago, out of the urgency to hear that everything was going okay back home. It was a feeling, a sensation out of demand that came in a split second; the need to hear the voice of my mama. - I was in Varanasi, India at this time. The energy of the city sticking to me like honey; dragging me down until even my steps began feeling heavier as I wandered through dirt filled alleyways. I was greeted by women poking their heads out of the doorways in bright colored sarees and red bindis. A single cow having his afternoon nap in said alleyway, blocking 16 motorbikes, a rickshaw, a couple of taxis, and a tractor. A city that strikes every sense, and heightens it by 20. A constant stream of honking horns, filled with the smell of burning bodies, the sound of motor boats chugging, and sadhus (holy men) sitting in the smoke of incense next to the Ganga in their orange robes and dreaded hair, sipping on piping hot chai. Boat drivers selling their hour long rides, vendors following you around to make the next sell, scammers looking at you as an ATM with legs. Groups of pilgrims coming from around the world. Varanasi is the city of Shiva, the God of creation in Hinduism. It sits just next to the Ganges river, a holy river to Hindus. A friend in Bali told me a story of an Indian man she met when she was on the train to Varanasi. She had spent hours speaking to him about all things in the world. Finally the question arose after hours of chatting, "Why are you going to Varanasi?" She asked, "I'm dying." "You're dying?!- shocked, of course- How do you know?" "I just do. I have about three days left, I think. And I've saved up my entire life to be burned in the city" And it was the peace and acceptance the man on the train exemplified; not only are we here to live in this life, but also to die. The last days of his life were spent in pilgrimage to this holy site. It is the combination between light and dark that mesmerized me, being a city of equal parts peaceful and chaotic. So, not only do people bathe in the Ganga (Ganges) river as a means to purify them, but it is said that those who bathe in it will become a holy person, will have their bad karma diminished, and those who are burned next to the river and put inside it upon death will reach Nirvana. There were days I would watch the cremation ceremony and just next to it I would find children jumping, hooting, and hollering as they swam and did back-flips into the river. Others washing their laundry. Many simply bathing. There were other times when I would see large masses rising to the top of the river- bodies that had risen to the bottom of the water, making their way along with the current. A friend I met in the hostel even explaining the ancestry of this city as the Great Grandfather of India; after all, Varanasi this is one of the oldest cities in the world. A city of equal parts light and dark. I knew I needed to be in India for some reason, and I had a feeling it would be painful. I have been slowly cracked open by India in these past few weeks, but Varanasi was the bitter cherry on the top, exposing my weaknesses, beliefs on life and death, and showed me how close they really are. - And then my mama picked up the phone. She was crying. Upon trying to tell me that everything was alright, I insisted and she said, "Anthony died"- I was confused and lost and in complete shock. Anthony, the name of my 11 year old cousin, could not die. He was 10 years younger than myself. She proceeded to tell me that my uncle had dropped off his other son to a camp just a couple of minutes away from his house, and upon checking on him when he arrived back home, he was no longer breathing. Here I was in the city of life and death, and my little cousin was taken out of this world. I listened to my mother as she explained the rest of the story. I could only think of the pain my uncle and Anthony's big brother were feeling. I still couldn't cry. I was numb. The loss of a son, or younger brother. I had to speak to my 16 year old brother immediately, to hear that he was still breathing, too. He picked up the phone, "Jo?" I could hear a cracking in his voice. He was there. Our little cousin was still gone. We cried on the phone together for a long time. - It's still too early to speak about so much of this, but writing about my experience is the only way I can feel like I've sorted even any of it out. A way for me to better understand what I'm going through. Being in India alone. Crying on the rooftop by myself for the loss of my silly, shining little cousin. For the consuming guilt I hold in my heart for not being with my family. For the suffering my they are going through. Knowing there's something here I have to learn about life and death before I go home, and that this lesson hasn't quite been learned yet. Missing his funeral. Being sent photos of my younger brother and uncles carrying his casket. My family in a graveyard. None of it seems real. I question my words when I say things like "light and dark" when I speak about life and death. Is it only our culture that makes us feel like dark is a representation of death, and light is of life? When someone leaves this world, don't we say things like "into the light?" As hard as this experience has been living it as far away as I am physically, I have already seen the good. The light. The love. When I was told Anthony died, I mentioned I was numb, but also incredibly awake- My thoughts raced back and forth between both extremes. Sadness, and my deep-down, all-knowing voice who told me to look for the signs of light. Maybe this was God. Maybe my spirit or true-self. Perhaps the universe. Whatever you call this voice, it hasn't left me since I heard my crying mother on the phone. This voice is unshakable. Just yesterday we were given the news that my great-grandmother had too, passed away. It is both a loss and a gain. A loss of a human form and the gain of a spirit- two guardian angels in one week. I have seen my community uniting because of this 11 year old bundle of laughter. Now I am seeing just the start of the community that is being created for my great grandma, a mother of 13 children. My community has come together to help my family with funeral expenses. I have seen my family restoring their lost connections. I have heard of people becoming more vulnerable; tearing down their own walls, opening their doors to the stories of their own loved ones who had passed away. Building strength and trust in each other through our vulnerability and hardships. Becoming one with what it means to be human. Appreciating light and dark. To love fully and unconditionally during our time here. Reminding us of what is important: our connections to one another in this life. Our togetherness.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
The adventures of a wildflower
|