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 an abandoned nurse’s desk. What a sight, old-time devotees scattered in a frozen state of disbelief. 

Everyone was trying to comprehend the loss. 

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 in winter. 

There was a distant sound, a rhythmic rise and fall, a clickity machine hiss, that nudged me back to focus.

I walk in and no one says a word. 

There’s just the exchange of serious glances. 

These looks say a thousand things all at once. 

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-devotee sees me, even though her head’s down. She speaks in a low tone, “You can go see him. He’s in there.” Her hand flings to the side indicating the room.

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 see him. 

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

Suddenly it dawns on me, I’m utterly unprepared for this moment. The others have somehow prepared for it. 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 my eyes and their drops fall on his cold feet. My thumb dabs at the drops as they seep into his feet.

I offer a prayer.

I’m alone with him one last time, I try to snapshot the moment 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. 

It’s slowly seeping in. I don’t know it yet, but I’m already 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 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 sitting with Johannes on the side porch of Guru ji’s house, I say in disbelief, “I’m not ready, Jo. He left too soon.” My statement sounds more like a quasi-question that 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 we sip tea and do our best to take in the enormity of the moment. 

I stand up to go to the main house. 

As I walk off our teacher’s porch, Johannes’ voice trails behind me, “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 eyes, they are warm and kind. I turn and gaze out at the lawn in front, letting Jo’s kindness, and the truth of what he’d just said land on me. 

Turning back, 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 not only in knowledge, but in yourself, even on the days when it’s so bad that you only speak in glances. 

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