“That’s fantastic,” I said. “What a wonderful transformation for you!”

While it was too early to gauge the extent of his growth, I had never expected even this revelation from him. While it wasn’t exactly an apology, it was an important admission. As far as I was concerned, no matter what happened next, a miraculous metamorphosis had already occurred.

He asked if we could meet next month, and I agreed. He would travel to Philadelphia and stay in a hotel. In a few minutes, we exchanged good-byes and the call was over.

Relief washed over me. I fell into the familiar warmth I experienced in yoga and meditation. With that one conversation, my father had given me a gift of an explanation decades in the making.

I recalled Heidi Bourne’s piece on Mettā and forgiveness. Yes, I was still me, but I had evolved over the years. Perhaps he was still himself, but maybe different, too. I realized in the moment that whether he had or hadn’t changed mattered far less to me than the fact that I truly had forgiven him. I condoned nothing about the way he had lived. My appreciation of the exchange was in no way contingent on the fantasy that he was entirely or even partially reformed; nor had our conversation meant he was welcome back in my life. But I was proud of the fact that my forgiveness of the childhood I didn’t have, my forgiveness of never having the father I wanted or deserved, my forgiveness of his brokenness was real. In this forgiving, I had allowed us both to heal. So, Heidi was right, “No big deal. And yet, it was everything.”

TEN

    Sitting with Olivia

I sat, craving stillness and knowing there was no other way to it than to let the craving go, to allow it to pass. I thought of a quote by Thich Nhat Hanh, the renowned spiritual leader and peace activist: “Letting go gives us freedom, and freedom is the only condition for happiness. If, in our heart, we still cling to anything—anger, anxiety, or possessions—we cannot be free.” So, I sat there, waiting, trying not to grip too hard. After the last line of the chant, the vibration of “om namah shivaya” lingered in the meditation center. The center’s being a fifteen-minute walk from my home made it possible for me to attend sessions once or twice each week. The walk itself served as part of the ritual.

I heard the shuffle of the monk’s assistant as he turned off the music, which indicated it was time for silent meditation. The last echo of the prayer radiated through each of my cells from my core out through the tips of my fingers and toes, taking with it the globs of tension, the clumps of resistance shaken loose by the reverberation. In its wake, emptiness. The crown of my head floated upward. My hands poised featherlight on my thighs.

Yes, this is it, that longed-for nugget of thoughtlessness.

With that, a stream of thoughts flooded my mind. What would I do about my current job? What would be my next big career move—no, life move? What would I do when Colin returned? Should I hear him out? More important, how would I forgive him for the immense pain I had allowed him to cause both of us?

Doh! I had done it again. Here I was, sitting next to myself, realizing again that judgment in the meditation space opens the gates for more judgment, more assessment, more momentum in confusing directions. Just like in yoga, injury comes easily when we slide into common ego patterns of pushing for a certain pose, a certain shape, a certain look on the surface. In the same way, emotional harm comes easily when we push from habit without directed intention.

As my chest tightened, I watched my thoughts, like quicksand, settle on my body. My palms became hot, and my skin felt compressed. The collar of my sweater was suddenly itchy, and just as suddenly, I couldn’t change position because of the intractable discomfort in my lower back. These were my cues to stop. Stop caring about my sweater, about the sore spot that had popped up on my right ankle—wait, had I just been bitten by a mosquito?

No. Just. Stop.

A thought bubble titled “Job” appeared in my consciousness. I saw myself sitting cross-legged as the bubble drifted by. My arms didn’t move, my mind didn’t shift. My ribs expanded and contracted with every breath as “Job” dissipated. My body melted into a velvety warmth. Everything fell away. A soft black sheet of space enveloped me. A watery ebony diffused into waves of crimson, auburn, yellow, and gold. I drifted in the middle, stable, secure, grounded, yoked to nothing. There I met a buoyant clarity as vibrant blue light radiated from my throat, opening as a luminous, expanding orb. A shiver ran down my upper back. A vision of Colin appeared. In his face, sincerity; in his eyes, love. I was filled with warmth, yet I was attached to nothing. The blue pulsated with each heartbeat, expanding and contracting with the rhythm of my breath. At my core was a dark magma from which emanated a knowing. It was less a voice, more a whisper. Not words, but a message whose translation contained in it the Ho’oponopono prayer:

    I love you. Breathe in. I’m sorry. Breathe out. Please forgive me. Breathe in. Thank you. Breathe out. I loved you. Breathe in. I’m sorry. Breathe out. Please forgive me. Breathe in. Thank you. Breathe out. I release you. I loved you. I’ve released you. I release you. I release you.

The image and the voice dissolved into the radiating indigo that kept me upright, rooted, steady, firm, easy. Then, nothing. The blue orb was swallowed back into the black pulsation that smoothed to gray. As I floated in stillness, the meditation bell rang. My bare feet on the ground felt chilly from the fall evening. I wrapped my wool sweater more snugly across my chest and scratched that itchy patch on my neck. My shoulders hung weightless at my sides. My throat was open.

I gathered my things and got ready to leave. I decided to keep my phone off. It was time to gently process what had happened. I had been meditating on my own for a while, but my practice remained sporadic. In this time of transition, I knew I needed some structure as I rededicated myself to the new life path I was crafting, and these Thursday evening sessions had been a helpful tool.

As I left the center, crisp air brushed my face. The storefront lights on Pine Street appeared more radiant. The cityscape was a collage of colors: robust greens, soothing browns, lustrous yellows. For the first time in a long time, I was awash in freedom. For the first time, perhaps ever, I was truly comfortable. I knew that after letting go, there is forgiveness; after forgiveness, there is faith. My key now was a radical alignment with truth, a radical faith that in leaning into love and letting go of everything else, the path unfolds as it should. I walked home amid leaves sailing to the ground—a gentle landing from a life cycle well spent.

When I opened the door to my condo, sweet spicy air filled my lungs. Yes, this was why I always burned incense: for that instant of remembering the moment I returned home.

The next morning, my phone alarm tore me from sleep. My first thought was that I must set a gentler alert. My eyes peeled open. Well, my right eye did, but my left was submerged deep in my pillow. As soon as I opened my eyes, I felt a quick tightening in my chest: the familiar anxiety. I stopped and let myself appreciate the warm embrace of the covers and the glow of my meditation message from the day before. The habitual grip of fear melted as one pattern gave way to the next. This new pattern was allowing me to feel supported, because life is better when I allow myself to feel that way. This morning I was appreciative of how the sky-blue throw that swaddled my face felt like a handful of dandelion seeds. I emerged from bed still feeling light from my night of meditation, my yoga of letting go.

Twenty-four minutes later—I have the time from my front door to the front gate of the hospital down to a science, provided there is no traffic—I approached the hospital entrance and waved a blind “hello” to the officer, whom I couldn’t possibly recognize in the darkness. With my coffee in hand, I checked the sign-outs from the night before. All were straightforward.

Like clockwork, the new patients started to arrive: three nonurgent patients for the fast-track area of the ER flashed on the board, followed by four patients for the main ER. One patient was quickly tracked to Room 12. The comments listed “HTN, headache.” Another tracked to Room 7: “alcohol detox, depression.” Knowing I would need to see the hypertensive patient first, I checked the triage and vitals for the detox patient. They were normal for this forty-year-old man, with the exception of mild tachycardia, an elevated heart rate. He looked stable and medically healthy. The triage nurse, Angela, came over to give the roll call.