Loss & Gain: That Time Unimaginable

In an instant everything changed. 

Years and years (10 to be exact) of nurturing and development and just like that.

Just. Like. That. 

I entered the hospital and discovered my Guru-Bhrata standing near the abandoned nurse’s desk, what a sight, old-time devotees scattered in a frozen state of disbelief. 

Everyone was trying to comprehend the loss, the moment. 

Time morphed, and bent – I recall everything became s-l-o-w.

A haze fell on me, on us all, like a light blanket of snow falls on a small town. 

I heard a distant sound, a rhythmic rise and fall, a clickity machine hiss, that nudged me back to re-focus.

I walk up, but no one says a word. 

There’s just the serious exchange of glances. 

These looks say a thousand things all at once. 

There is only silence. 

In my mind, I turn away from the small exam room – Something tells me don’t look there.

It’s dark, and chilly, even from this far. 

His daughter sees me, with her head down, she speaks in a low tone, “You can go see him. He’s in there.”

The matter-of-factness of her response is our familiar way of relating, and it offers a drop of comfort. Something is the same.

As I hear her words, I both want to see him, and I don’t want to. 

I’m not afraid of a vacated body, I’ve seen that before. I’m afraid of the loss.

I’m unprepared for this moment. It’s obvious that the others have prepared. They still have their feet on the ground. They look hit, but they don’t look undone; they’re not about to vomit.

I step into the dark small room. Bow my head.

I want to ask Guru ji if he needs anything, as I’d done so many times before. 

But the room is still. 

Tears fill in my eyes and their drops fall on his cold feet. My thumb presses them away and they seep into his foot.

I offer a prayer.

I’m alone with him one last time, I try to snapshot in my mind, grasp his form, his feet, hands, face. 

I stand before him, looking for what remains. I am a mix of shock and surrender.

Whispering something into his ear, I kiss his hand and rest my head there. 
(If you think I’ll tell you what I said, uh nope. That’s between he and I)

Head to feet. Mine to his feet. 

It’s slowly seeping in. I don’t know it yet, but I’m already mid step, of stepping off a cliff. Life will never be the same.

The vibe of, “Let’s see what you got kid,” hangs in the air, like a flashing neon sign. 

 I could give a sh**. I got nothing. I’m like a deflated balloon. 

“What do you mean? How can you feel so sad. Aren’t you a meditator?” someone said months later mockingly. 

They have no clue what they’re saying, they still live in idealizations. They don’t yet understand profound love, and the journey of loss. 

They’ll learn. 

A week later back at Guru ji’s house, on the side porch, sitting with Johannes, I say in disbelief, “I’m not ready, Jo. He left too soon.” My statement sounds more like a quasi-question I’m posing to the universe. Johannes senses this. 

We toss stories of times gone by, back and forth, of how Guru ji’s passing happened, and who did what during that time. 

All while sipping tea and doing our best to take in the enormity of the moment. 

I stand up to leave and go to the main house. 

As I walk off our teacher’s porch, Johannes’ voice trails off behind me, saying, “He must’ve felt you were ready. The Guru never leaves until the student is ready.” 

I look over my shoulder, catching the light in his, they are warm and kind. I then turn and gaze out at the lawn in front, letting Jo’s kindness, and the truth of what he said land on me. 

Turning back again, I say. “Mmm, you might be right. Either way it’s comforting to hear. Thanks, Jo,” and off I go.

In a couple of months, I realize:

Everything Guru ji did prepared me to meet this moment. 

All the training. The studies. The humor. The care.

It’s my first realization after his passing:

Studying is the preparation. Immersing isn’t only so that you can recite mantras well. You recite mantras, you refine them, and in time, you merge with the mantra, and or the teaching. 

Through formal practice, your character wholly transforms. 

After years of immersion, you’re not the same, in the best of ways. 

This study, this preparation with its transformation allows you to meet whatever happens in life both good and difficult with awareness and strength. That’s what teachings do, they prepare you, they make you strong in yourself, even on the days when it’s so bad that you only speak in glances. 

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