Travel pastiches and grief journeys

Sunday Blog

Greetings from Rishikesh. I thought I’d share a picture of me beside the pool.

Missing from the image:

• the deafening sounds of drills and jackhammers all around as Rishikesh is developed at break-neck speed. It sounds like the drill is about to break through my hotel room wall

• the cool (cold) temperature of the pool

• blisters of my feet. Why did I buy new plastic Birkenstocks just before heading to India? Why?

• the sign that says the pool is connected to the cafe but bafflingly, when I try to order a tea to have by the pool it’s not allowed

• the pigeons which regularly flap down to the pool for a drink. I thought that they and I were to be the only pool patrons-but one other person

Isn’t it something though? The view of the Himalayas…

But now, onto the Sunday Blog, filling you in since the moment I was unable to board my flight to India.

Wishing you a wonderful Sunday, wherever you are. XXX

Sunday Blog 157 - 27th October 2024

At the conclusion of last Sunday's blog, I was marooned in the limbo of a Heathrow airport hotel. Before I move on, let me linger on my six-day stay in London. Very rusty on London landmarks, I caught sight of an enormous statue when walking through Kensington Gardens. For a second I thought it was Queen Victoria, gloomy in grief. I muttered inwardly about her ego. Look at the size of it. But of course, it was the monument to her beloved Albert. The Taj Mahal, London-style if you will. A resonance of her deep mourning washed across the years over to me, and, chastened, I took a quick snap (see pastiche).

London for me was about catching up with friends, but also looking for labyrinths in obscure streets and poking around churches that didn't charge entry. Lighting candles for my parents for 50 pence apiece. (See spooky cupids and skulls, me and a labyrinth, and two candles for my parents in the collage).

After this miscellany of simple adventures, there was the kerfuffle of being turned away for my India flight to join the yoga retreat I'd booked early this year. My fresh India visa arrived in the early hours of Monday, and I was on my way that evening. Not my normal itinerary, there was a tight turnaround on Tuesday for my connecting local flight from Delhi to Dehradun near Rishikesh. I had to slog through immigration, wait endlessly for my bag and circle straight back through the airport entrance. After clearing security I was panicky, red-faced and running, mouthing my gate number with a wild look in my eyes. A nice airport staff member ran alongside me in a wheelchair and said, "get in."

I readily jumped in and he rushed me towards the gate. Just as I was boarding, I thought I'd lost my passport. I postponed a breakdown to when I was in my seat and could make sure this disaster had happened. But once I took my seat and the mists of adrenalin receded, I checked my handbag again, and there it was. I kissed it. And thus I made it to Rishikesh.

"Are you feeling nice and relaxed?" my husband asked yesterday, the first time we've been able to connect. He's cycling around Western Australia and we've both been out of range.

"Um, no." Invigorated. Alive. Challenged, but not relaxed.

India. On Wednesday, the day after my panicky entrance into Rishikesh, we visited a temple and I took random selfies of the gods and goddesses who really did seem to be looking at me (see picture under the labyrinth).

We then walked further up the Ganges and I witnessed the daily fire ceremony extravaganza - one of many happening all up and down her banks. I was lifted up, up, up on the crowd energy and dropped just for a moment my husk of constant mental activity. (That's the final panel on the collage - the god Shiva, and some fire to burn away eog to give a little hint of the wild spectacle that it was.)

This particular fire ceremony was convened by the Parmath Niketan Ashram (it has its own You Tube channel). After the ceremony we shuffled in to listen to one of the Swamis undertake a question and answer session with the audience.

I was not expecting the first question to be a request for advice to support a 90+ year-old parent at the end of their life. Swami Sadhviji had some excellent answers I thought, but as she listed options for him to consider, the sorrow welled up in me. When she described her grandmother's last night, where she cuddled up to her and kept telling her over and over again not to be worried, I was sobbing openly and wishing I'd brought tissues. (Earlier in the day I'd wished I'd brought toilet paper, but we'll draw a veil over that).

All the if-onlys. If only we could've kept Mum at home. If only there'd been some way to comfort her more over her last year of life. I often snuck in a Pema Chodron book, but the words stuck in my throat. It wasn't what she needed. There were sweet visits and happy times but--if only I hadn't gone home and left her all alone on her last night. I often wanted to stay the night but never broached the subject with the aged care facility staff. Her last week was a jagged stop-start experience where morphine was charted one minute and food provided the next. So I went home on the last night.

I dreamt of her after the night of the fire ceremony. It was the first time I'd dreamt of her since New York. She was still living at home in the dream, but the house looked different. She needed support and care, but was happier.

I thought I heard her voice the next day, saying, "you did all you could."

Perhaps India magic, or lack of sleep, but I'll take it.