To Love and Let Go

by Rachel Brathen

  And then it was just two of us left. Another girl and me. I couldn’t move. The other girl stood. She was thin, with blond hair and big glasses sitting on the tip of her nose. “My name is Anna,” she said. “I’m from Switzerland. I just went through a breakup. My boyfriend left me, with no warning. Everyone leaves me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” She wiped her eyes with a Kleenex. “I long for love,” she said. “Real, true love. I don’t have anyone.” She burst into tears. Shubhaa walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You are very brave, coming here. Very strong,” she said. Her words seemed to calm Anna and she sat down.

  I was the only one left. I wanted to stand but I felt like I had melted into the chair. After a long moment, Shubhaa asked, “Rachel? Would you like to stand up?” I didn’t, but even more I wanted everyone to stop looking at me. The moment I stood and looked out at the group I burst into tears. I just stood there, in front of everyone, crying. I felt so embarrassed. “Can I touch your arm?” Shubhaa asked. I nodded, and she placed both hands on my upper arms and stroked them. I was calmed by her touch. “How are you feeling, Rachel?” she asked. I tried to speak, but the tears started to flow again. “I’m just so . . . tired,” I cried. It was true. I’d never been so tired. It was as if the speed of my life and all the pain I’d felt over the last two years were hitting me all at once. “And what do you long for, Rachel?” Shubhaa asked. “I want to sleep,” I said, smiling a little. “I just want to rest.” Shubhaa smiled at me. “Thank you, Rachel.”

  I was emotionally overwrought, everyone was, but the day was just beginning. We were about to start the next exercise—about how we were perceived by people who knew little or nothing about us. Every person was to stand in front of the group and receive feedback from other participants. “We want honest, raw truth,” Shubhaa said.

  Tatiana started us off. “Anna, what do you think of me?” Following Shubhaa’s instructions, Anna responded, “Tatiana, I see you as someone who is a very kind person. A good friend.” Shubhaa interrupted her. “Thank you, Anna, but that’s not what we are looking for here. Of course Tatiana has many beautiful and amazing qualities, but what this exercise is about is looking at the shadow side. If you look at Tatiana right now, what do you see? What is the real truth?” Anna looked at Tatiana for a long time. “I understand. Tatiana . . . I see you as someone who has had a very hard life.” “Thank you, Anna,” said Shubhaa. “Tatiana, please continue.”

  “Bas, what do you think of me?”

  “Tatiana, I see you . . . as a little bit standoffish,” he said.

  “Naveen, what do you think of me?”

  “Tatiana, I see you as someone who has had a lot of struggle in their past,” he said.

  “Rachel, what do you think of me?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I wanted to be truthful. She did look like someone who had had a very hard life. Wrinkles were carved into her face and her forehead was lined from frowning. Her arms were crossed over her chest. “Tatiana, I see you as someone who is fighting upstream,” I said.

  When everyone answered, Tatiana looked visibly upset. “I didn’t think you would answer me like this,” she said. “It’s all true. I mean, yes, I have had a very tough life. But I see myself as a very happy person. I don’t want to be seen as someone who has had a hard life. I am so much more than that.”

  I had never looked at anyone with such unfiltered honesty. My heart pounded when it was my turn to stand up in front of the group. I tried to think loving thoughts—I hoped they saw me as a nice person. Their answers shocked me. “Rachel, I see you as someone who has a wall up,” Anna said. “Rachel, I see you as someone who is a control freak,” said Matteo. “I see you as someone who has a deep, deep sadness inside,” Devika said. “I see you as someone who deep down believes she is ugly,” Bas said. “I see you as a perfectionist,” Peter said. “I see you as someone who is very angry, deep within,” Tatiana said. Naveen was the last one. “I see you as someone who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders,” he said.

  I just stood there. “How does this make you feel?” Shubhaa asked. “Sad,” I said, starting to cry. “Really, really sad. I don’t feel like I am that person they’re talking about. Or maybe I am, but I don’t want it to show.”

  “And what happens if you would show the world your true colors?” Shubhaa asked. “No one would want to be with me,” I said.

  Was that really who I was? Controlling? Sad? A perfectionist? Shubhaa called what we were doing “shadow work.” It was deeply transformative, she said. The Path of Love process was not just about finding our way to love and light, but about looking at our shadow side, our dark side, and, instead of suppressing those parts of us, giving them space and letting them show. “When we stop hiding these sides of ourselves, we can transform them into something beautiful,” she said. “This process is about welcoming every part of who you are.”

  We were later asked to write a letter stating our commitment to ourselves. “I commit to letting myself be vulnerable, seen, and held,” I wrote. I wondered how in the hell I was going to make it through the rest of the week. It had only been a few hours and already I felt like I had learned so much about myself, but it didn’t change the exhaustion and deep sense of sadness I felt.

  • • •

  When it was time to go back into session, I noticed the chairs were set up differently. They were grouped in pairs, facing each other. Matteo ended up sitting across from me. The question we were instructed to ask each other was “At the end of your life, will you be able to look back and feel content about the life you have lived?”

  Matteo went first. “I’m so angry,” he said. “I don’t want to die knowing I spent most of my life holding on to anger and resentment.”

  When it was my turn, I spoke with confidence. “If I would die today, I would feel like I did my best,” I said. “At least I hope so. I have loved. I love. A lot. I’ve seen the world. But, also, I have spent too many nights on the couch watching TV. I could be taking better care of my body. I could be having more sex with my husband. He loves me so much. Also, I think there is a lot of healing left for me to do.” I was surprised at how easy it was to share intimate pieces of my life and my relationships with a complete stranger.

  When the sharing part was over, we were divided into two long lines and told to hold the gaze of the person across from us. My person was a redheaded woman with piercing green eyes and freckles. I didn’t know her name, and holding her gaze felt awkward and uncomfortable. Every few minutes, we were instructed to take another step toward each other. Why was it so hard to look her in the eye? I asked myself. I taught yoga for a living. I guided people toward intimacy and connection. Why was this so hard?

  Rafia guided us until our foreheads were touching. I was relieved because I couldn’t see her eyes anymore. The connection felt nice. At the end, we embraced. I felt uncomfortable again. The music changed. People started to move around the room.

  I went to a corner to hide. Shubhaa called me out. “Rachel, let’s go!” I shook my head. “Come on,” she urged. “There is a child inside you. She wants to come out and play. It’s been a heavy day. Dance!” She took my hand and pulled me toward the middle of the room. I felt like I was in school and everyone was going to laugh at me. I waved my arms and spun myself around. “You did good,” Shubhaa whispered. “Little bits at a time.”

  Finally we got a break for tea and snacks. “Rest for a little and get your energy back,” Rafia said. “You are going to need it.” We were instructed to return in forty-five minutes with a full bottle of water and a towel. I arrived early. Once everyone was back, Rafia gave us our next task. “You are about to go into a strong group meditation,” he said. “The hall upstairs has been transformed to a safe, sacred space for you to burn through your emotions. It’s a place to feel your feelings and to let old emotions come up, catch fire and burn. It will bring you tremendous relief. There are mattresses and pillows and blanke
ts laid out across the room. Find a mattress, make it yours, and go into whatever emotion is there. There are people there to support you and keep you safe. Use your towel to twist, cry into, punch, and cover yourself. Go deep. Your longing is burning in your heart and it wants to lead you home. Follow your group leader into the room, holding your partner’s hand.”

  The air was electric. I found Naveen and we followed our group upstairs to the main hall. The room had been transformed. The lights were turned low and mattresses with pillows and blankets covered the floor. Music blared. I chose a mattress in the corner. The doors closed and Rafia spoke on a microphone, guiding us to our breath, into our bodies. Clutching my pillow, I closed my eyes. I could feel the beating of my heart. I covered my face with the towel and cried into it.

  Rafia guided us deeper, drawing on real-life examples of pain. He spoke of loss, struggle, and heartache. Soon, everyone was crying. The music intensified. People around me transitioned from sadness and tears to anger. I heard people screaming, punching pillows, and banging their fists into their mattresses. Someone near me had flown into a rage. “Fuck you you motherfucking cunt fuck!” he shouted. I recognized the voice as Matteo’s and opened my eyes to a terrifying scene. Three assistants were holding him back while he kicked a bolster that was held by another assistant. The assistants taunted him. “Is that all you’ve got? Huh?” I watched as Matteo’s eyes went dark. It wasn’t him anymore, only his rage. He fought and fought until he finally collapsed on the floor, sobbing. The assistants surrounded him, holding him and stroking his back and his head. As I watched the scene play out, my rational mind thought, This is genius. I actually saw the release of emotion right in front of me—the healing. It’s fucking insane that we hold this inside, I thought. That this exists within us. Letting it out isn’t what’s crazy—holding it in is.

  I wanted to feel angry, too. I was on the outside looking in instead of going into my own experience. I tried punching my pillow, but I was too tired, and it felt like too much effort. I felt like I couldn’t move. Someone squatted down beside me. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Do it anyway,” he said. “Punch it anyway. Even if you’re not angry. Even if you feel nothing. Let the body lead. Just punch it.”

  I did as I was told. I punched the pillow. Again and again and again. I felt my anger rise to the surface. I was angry to be there. Why am I in this room full of crazy people? I wondered. I don’t belong here. Or maybe I did. Maybe it was all the external bullshit—the things I’d learned in the outside world that made me feel like I didn’t belong. I punched the pillow again and I felt anger rising within me. Why was I here? Why did I have to go and do crazy things like punch pillows in a dark room full of angry people when I could be at home with my husband in peace? Why did life bring me so many struggles? I started yelling, angry at the world, and roared and punched until I crumpled in tears onto my mattress. I saw Pepper in front of me. I was hugging the pillow but I was also hugging him. Pepper. My baby. I missed him so much. I couldn’t breathe. I heard Shubhaa’s voice. “Can we hold you?” she asked. While she held me, someone else placed their hands on my feet and squeezed them. “Why are you sad?” Shubhaa asked. “Tell me.” I could barely get the words out. “He . . . he died. Pepper. He died. I should have saved him, but I didn’t. It was my fault. Pepper, my dog, I loved him so much.” Shubhaa held her face against mine. I wondered if she was surprised that Pepper was a dog. Was it strange that I was feeling so much sadness over a pet? “Wow,” she said. “Look at all the love you have for him. There is so much love. Can you feel it?” I nodded yes. “Just stay with that for a moment,” she said. “Stay with the love. You have so much love for him. That’s why the pain is big, because the love was big. Don’t leave it—stay, right there. Just feel.” I stopped crying and sat in stillness. I felt the love. It was enveloped in a big layer of sadness, but the love was there. Oceans of it. For Pepper.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Shubhaa said. Again I nodded. “If you could have saved him, would you have?” Her question stunned me. I would have given anything—done anything to save Pepper. “Of course,” I said. “But you couldn’t,” she said.

  I don’t know what it was about that simple sentence—whether it was the release of anger and pain and sadness I’d buried, or all the emotions I had from the intensity of the retreat—but it changed everything for me. “You couldn’t.” It was true. I couldn’t save him. If I could have, I would have. But I couldn’t. Life didn’t work that way. “If I could have saved him, I would have,” I repeated. “And what does that tell you?” Shubhaa asked. “Maybe . . .” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t my fault.”

  Hearing myself say the words, I felt a heavy weight lift from my chest. Pepper’s death wasn’t my fault. I loved him more than anything. If I could have saved him, I would have. I couldn’t and he died. It wasn’t my fault. I exhaled and fell fast asleep. Right there on my mattress, with people all around me, I slept. It was as if releasing the guilt I’d held on to surrounding Pepper’s death had pulled some kind of plug. It wasn’t my fault. My entire body let go.

  That night, after dinner and meditation, I returned to my room for bed. As I went to close the blinds, I glanced across the courtyard to a light in a window on the other side. I could see a woman sitting there, looking out at the night, breastfeeding her baby. I felt a sudden yearning in the bottom of my belly. They looked so peaceful. An unexpected thought came my way. I want that. I closed the blinds and went to sleep.

  • • •

  On the third day, I left my inhaler behind. I had gained trust in the group. I felt safer than I had when I got there, even though I suspected the sessions would intensify. I trusted a little more. Shubhaa started off with a question that related to my epiphany about Pepper the day before. “Why had I felt responsible for Pepper, for his life and his death? Where did the guilt stem from?” She didn’t say anything more than that. That was how things went in sessions with Shubhaa—she didn’t interrogate us, or ask a bunch of questions leading up to what she wanted to know. She just threw it out there.

  What was the root of my guilt? I knew the answer to the question but it stuck in the back of my throat, like I was about to vomit. Something wanted out, but I was having a hard time purging it. “I think it’s related to my mom,” I said after a few minutes of silence. Shubhaa didn’t speak, which prompted me to fill in the silence. “She has tried to commit suicide several times. It happened last year again. I was the one who saved her. Since I was little, I’ve felt like I was the one responsible for her life.”

  I spoke calmly, almost matter-of-factly. I knew I was speaking from my logical mind. Yes, this happened. Yes, it sucks. But I’m over it. Right? “What’s happening in your body now?” Shubhaa asked. “Close your eyes. Feel this in your body. Say that sentence again. ‘I feel like I’m responsible for my mother’s life.’ ” Taking a deep breath, I began to speak. “I feel . . . I feel . . .” I was choking on my words. “I feel like I’m responsible for my mother’s life.” My throat closed and I couldn’t catch my breath. I grabbed my throat and gasped. Shubhaa ran toward me and waved for the assistants to follow her. She rubbed my back. “You are safe here,” she said, trying to soothe me. “It’s safe here. It’s safe to be in your own body. You are safe.” I began to gag. The responsibility was choking me. “Basket!” Shubhaa yelled. I vomited into the basket but nothing came out. “You were just a child,” Shubhaa said. I clung to her words. I was just a child. It wasn’t my fault that she wanted to die. I felt myself calm down. I was awestruck by how much was moving inside of me. The session ended and when I left to return to my apartment, I still felt like there was something festering in my body—something that needed to come out.

  That afternoon, we had another intense meditation. I tried getting angry, but instead I just sat on my mattress, crying, thinking about Andrea. I wondered if I would ever be done processing her death. I wanted her to come to me in a vision like Pepper did the day before, but I didn’t see her. I just f
elt the pain.

  At the end of the day we had satsang—a sacred gathering. It felt like Savasana at the end of a yoga class. Calming. Beautiful. Back in my apartment, uneasiness set in. I felt alone and panicky. Why hadn’t I stayed in a dorm or communal hall, or at least had a roommate? Instead, it was just me in that big apartment I’d fought so hard to get.

  I showered, trying to wash the panic away. I brewed a cup of tea and sat in silence, attempting to meditate. I tried all of my methods—rolling out my yoga mat, burning palo santo, journaling. Nothing made it subside. I didn’t even know where it was coming from.

  I went to bed, hoping it would go away. As soon as I tried to sleep, the anxiety took over completely. My throat closed and I couldn’t get a breath. I began to panic the way I did when I was attacked by the dogs in my street the year before—I just couldn’t breathe anymore. I wanted to call Rose, or Dennis, but I couldn’t. Gasping for air I was certain I was about to die and there was no one to help me. The center was closed and I was alone. I’m going to die here and no one knows.

  On some level I understood that what was happening was a panic attack, but I had also convinced myself I was dying. I opened the wardrobe doors, pulled out my suitcase, and dug out my computer. As I waited for it to turn on, my breath was barely present. Black spots flickered in front of my face. I felt my chest tightening. I opened up Skype and dialed the emergency number on the welcome sheet. It was the middle of the night. A woman answered, her voice tired. “Osho UTA, can I offer my assistance?” “I’m dying,” I said. “I’m dying. Help. I’m dying. Please—I can’t breathe. I’m on the top floor. I’m alone. My name is Rachel. Please help.” The woman’s voice was calm. Too calm. “We will send someone right away, stay on the line with me,” she said. “Deep breaths. Can you explain to me what is happening right now? What’s going on in your body?”