CONVOLUTED CORKSCREW OF LIFE
I was teaching high school in Colorado in the late 1990’s. Earlier, when I left Greensboro, North Carolina for the mountains of the west, my mother and I would have many chats on the phone. On one call, my mother said to me, “You should think about finding someone to settle down with. Most of my friends’ daughters are married. And when you do settle down, do not name a child after me.”
You see, my mother’s name was Duilla (Do-wella). Her mother created the name and really liked it. Mom, on the other hand, struggled with it. Although she enjoyed its uniqueness and never considered changing it to her middle name (which was Idell) or an easier name, people never got her name right. When someone asked for her name, she would have to spell it a few times, then pronounce it even more. It was comical to see the mail she would receive and the interpretations of her name, and to watch people grapple with something so unfamiliar.
In a later conversation, I told mom I had a new love in my life—a kitten! Since she did not desire a child to have her namesake, the kitten was named Duilla.
Duilla (the kitten) was a beautiful Tortoiseshell kitten and a wonderful companion while I completed graduate school. And when I moved. And when I started teaching high school. And when I met John, my husband. And when I moved again. And when John and I married. And when I change careers. And when Duilla (the kitten) played “punching bag” with my stepson’s sweet little face (no claws, thankfully)! As Kyle gasped and tried to catch his breath and composure, we were surprised and laughed at what we saw. Kyle caught his breath and laughed too! Not the introduction we were hoping for, but they began to trust each other after the one-sided boxing match, which, we learned, cats do because they are insatiably curious and use this technique as their perfect way to investigate something without coming too close to it. It sure startled her prey that day!
Duilla had this habit that if I lingered too long in bed, she would take her paws and make a melodious sound above my head on the metal blinds. If she wanted something, she would walk over and across us as we slept, and she would even sleep around my head and on my chest. She would stand on John’s chest and stare at him until he relinquished his reading or napping to acquiesce to her desires. And one evening, we opened the back door to let her explore outside in the yard as she had so many times before.
That night in my dreamlike state I heard a cat crying. I was too tired to get up and see what was happening and John was fast asleep. In the fog of sleepiness, I figured it was a neighborhood cat fight and fell back asleep, unaware that sweet Duilla was still exploring the quiet of the night.
In the morning, John came into the bedroom and awakened me. He said, “Jeanne, I am so sorry to tell you this. Duilla was hit by a car, and she is no longer alive.” My heart broke. I felt guilty. I felt responsible. I felt like I was a horrible feline parent. How did I not know? Why didn’t I get up and check?
I stayed home and held my cat. John and I said a prayer and buried her in the garden bed. I missed her meowing. I missed her waking me up in the morning. I missed changing her litterbox. I missed her soul and her companionship and the way she made us all laugh. Through many of my life events I held her and cried. I also celebrated many joys of life and milestones with her.
My good friend, Rob, who I taught high school with for many years, went to work, and shared with a dear friend of mine in the history department that Duilla died. She had visited Litchfield beach with my parents and me and visited them at their home in Greensboro, too. Karen was stunned and heartbroken. She said to Rob, “Oh my goodness! Jeanne’s mom died! Where is she? What can I do?” Rob chuckled under his breath and, as composed as he could be, said, “Karen! Not her mother! Duilla, her CAT!” Karen was unsettled; Rob was tittered; and I laughed at the convoluted corkscrew of events that life offers.
The 13th-century poet, Jalaluddin Rumi, once wrote, "The cure for the pain is in the pain,” suggesting that healing from emotional or psychological pain requires facing and understanding it, rather than avoiding or numbing it. By embracing the pain and feeling it deeply, one can gain valuable insights and move towards healing. In feeling our own pain, we touch a place inside of us that is tender, empathetic, and kind—and in so doing, we remember our connection to our greatest good.
Perhaps you or someone close to you has recently received a life-threatening diagnosis, your relationship with your spouse or beloved partner is in chaos, or, like me, you have a parent or a loved one who recently made her transition. Or maybe you have felt anguish, outrage, or despair over the recent socio-political developments within the United States.
When we override our experience of suffering by denying it or sublimating it—or if we simply try to get it to pass as quickly as possible—we close a window that offers potential for opening us to our greatest good. When the molecules of feeling move freely inside of us, an alchemical shift occurs. We can change the way we experience life.
There is a phrase that yoga practitioners like to use: Less Duhkha (“bad” space; restriction; unease)! More Sukha (good space; happiness; ease)! Yoga offers us tools to alchemize our energy from restrictive or bound to experience the “sweetness of life.” We can do this through mindful awareness, acceptance, compassion, Kriya yoga (discipline, self-study and surrender to the divine), yoga, and recognition of true Self.
As many of you know, my mother, Duilla, died this past January. She was a great purveyor of humor, love, and joy. Humor helps the heart heal. So do close friends and family, a sunrise or a sunset, a favorite dessert, a ceremony to let go of the Dukkha, or a continual reminder to embrace the Sukha.
Namaste,
Jeanne