Touch Grass, Count Stars

A yogi's field guide to surviving grief

Irises outside the Chapel of Loretto, Santa Fe, NM

My mother’s health had been failing for quite some time: not weeks, not months, but decades. I sometimes wondered if she was not actually feline, just based on the sheer number of times that she’d cheated death. Her nine lives ran out with a massive stroke this past May; even then, she held on longer than anybody thought possible. I managed to arrive from New York in time to tell her once again that I loved her and that I knew that she loved me, too, though whether or not she was aware I was the one holding her hand was anybody’s guess. We lost her three days before Mother’s Day.

I’ve had well-meaning friends who’ve lost their own parents warn me that I wouldn’t understand the magnitude of her death until it happened. I’m not entirely sure they understood that I’ve been grieving the loss of her for the better part of the past 20 years. Yes, there’s been sadness, occasional tears, and the wish that all of this could have gone a very different way. But what I’ve mostly been feeling is gratitude that a woman who I knew to be a force of nature is no longer trapped in a body that repeatedly and horrifically failed her (though the argument could be made that she repeatedly and horrifically failed her body, as well).

Grief is a call to be enormously present: to hold space for those who extend condolences; to offer gratitude for all of the people who show up for us in all of the ways that they can and do; to embrace those who arrive with their own hearts and eyes filled with complicated feelings; to work with our own self-care practices in the interest of keeping our own nervous systems regulated. We see each other, we are present with one another, we try to respond verses react through the lens of ahimsa (and in that practice of non-violence, sometimes the best response is none at all), and we try to hold each other’s feelings gently, even if it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

It is an opportunity to allow our compassion to deepen, to remember that often there are many things going on under the surface for each and every one of us, all of us dealing with our own struggles, our own losses. And it changes us, shapes us. When a loved one passes, we are often gifted with a sudden, clear-eyed perspective on how we are living our own lives. The renewed awareness of our own mortality serves as a valuable reminder that we have agency. We’re allowed to shift, change, and exercise free will. We don’t have to stay the course if the course isn’t working for us. We get to set an intention, and we get to choose different.

My mom & me in Cloudcroft, NM, many moons ago

We decide how we move through our practice and, by extension, our days. We determine how we want to meet the earth, our loved ones, our work, and ourselves. And at the end of it all, we are rewarded with savasana. It is not a coincidence. Yes, it is a posture of rest, but it is as much that as it is a posture of integration. On the surface, it may look as if we are simply lying on the floor, but that’s not what savasana is about.

Corpse pose is not an easy posture for all people. I would argue it’s one of the most difficult. It’s not something that is often talked about in commercial yoga, but our practice is as much a road map for how to live as it is a preparation for death. Sometimes, it is easy to drop into savasana with a blissful sense of release. Other days, there may be something going on in terms of our physical, emotional and/or energetic bodies that make it difficult for us to lie still and let go.

On the days when savasana is hard for me, I try to get curious about the fidget finding its way into my head and/or body. I try to hold whatever the challenge might be for me that day with compassion. I come back to my breath and see if I can identify a spot where I might be able to invite in a bit more ease. I notice the points of contact between my body and all that is supporting me in that moment. Try it yourself, and see if something shifts.

A couple of days after the funeral, my dad and I drove out to White Sands National Park, which I have always loved, and I pulled off my socks for an earthing walk on the gypsum dunes. I sat down surrounded by mountains and clouds, and listened to the wind.

While I sincerely hope to see you all on the mat at Heights Meditation & Yoga’s new studio this June at 181st Street and Riverside Drive, I’m also issuing homework: get outside this summer. Kick off your shoes, pedicure be damned. Read an actual book or three. Enjoy freshly-mowed lawns (that’s right, I’m telling you to touch grass). Crash into the surf. Watch sunsets and moon rises. Count stars and let your body feel the earth. Hug your friends, eat perfectly ripe produce, dance badly with glorious abandon, and may you all simply be here now. We each have a finite amount of time on this magnificent rock hurtling through space — use it for good.

Take care of yourselves, hydrate, and I’ll see you on the mat.

Grief is just love with no place to go. - Jamie Anderson

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Interested in booking private, in-home yoga or reiki sessions, or want to learn more about my yoga journey?

You can — check out my website.

Heights Meditation & Yoga is moving!

New digs — come see us at 875 W. 181st Street & Riverside Drive

Schedule subject to change, keep an eye on the HM&Y website.

Tuesdays

• 12pm Slow Flow

Wednesdays

• 5:15pm Yang & Yin

• 7:45pm Restorative & Reiki

Saturdays

• 11:30am Yang & Yin

Sundays

• 4pm Slow Flow

• 5:15pm Yin & Restorative