The Healing

by Saeeda Hafiz

  Beginning my day in a peaceful way was still important to me. We woke up early every weekday morning to have a sit down breakfast by candlelight. Breakfast with loved ones was my favorite thing—not to mention all the studies that say that starting the day with breakfast impacts the rest of the day positively. On weekends Nick would go to Destination Bakery on Chenery Street and buy me a blackcurrant scone or fruit Danish and then make me a cup of hot tea, which he served to me in bed. It was nice to eat my wholesome breakfast foods during the week and have a treat on Saturdays. He also cooked one day a week, making his mom’s Colombian spaghetti recipe.

  The relationship was healing for me. Being around Nick and his other male friends helped me trust men more and more. It gave me hope. I witnessed healthy compromise between couples, especially his parents.

  Yet, a few months after living together, I started having nightmares, and we started fighting about our future. I don’t know which started happening first, but both were becoming increasingly frustrating. One morning I woke up and said, “Nick, I’m mad at you,” while lightly punching his arm.

  “What? You just woke up. What did I do?”

  “You were trying to smother me with a pillow. You tried to kill me.”

  “Sy, it was a dream.”

  “I don’t care. I’m mad. You tried to kill me.”

  Nick got out of bed, chuckling and shaking his head. “It’s only a bad dream. You know that I would never hurt you.”

  “I know, but I’m still mad,” I said, laughing a bit.

  Our routine continued. And then I had the same dream again. I was uneasy. I didn’t tell Nick how often I had the dream because I knew he would never hurt me. He was my gentle Oso (“bear” in Spanish), but I’d wake up exhausted and fearful from my dreams, where I was fighting all night for my life.

  I hadn’t wavered from wanting us to be partners in the relationship. But I also didn’t want to be a girlfriend, fiancée, or wife who had to nag her man about taking out the garbage. And every week I was in fact reminding him to take out the trash. I felt like this was symbolic because I knew that, on some level, he didn’t think things were fair. Nick had found a job as a project manager for a booming computer chip company, and I didn’t earn as much money as he did. However, we did agree to contribute the same percentage of our salaries toward household expenses. I did more household management to make it more equal between us, but we both sensed that we had an imbalance.

  Soon our communication became more and more strained. I wanted to go to counseling. He agreed, but he had his doubts and fears. The last time he’d gone to counseling was in the last stages of his marriage, and he’d gotten divorced soon after. But I felt stuck and wanted someone else to intervene, because the normal daily routine of life didn’t seem right for me. I needed to go deeper, emotionally and spiritually. I needed to feel like we were going in the same direction.

  In counseling we discovered that, at the point where Nick was feeling satisfied with us and where we were, I was just starting to feel connected. Nick either didn’t or couldn’t understand my need to go deeper and become more vulnerable with one another. Perhaps my request for that kind of intimacy was unreasonable or impossible.

  The therapist once described us as a Velcro strip that couldn’t quite match up together, making it hard to function properly. Nick was afraid to fully express himself with me and he used passive-aggressive methods to handle situations, especially since he knew I was so afraid of having fights that could spin out of control and into violence. He never said this, but perhaps my fears bullied Nick in some way. Perhaps it was my flaw of perfectionism rearing its ugly head, or perhaps we were just two people with two different value systems regarding the life they wanted to live as a couple. Nick seemed content with a relationship based on routine; I, on the other hand, wanted more self-discovery and evolution through our relationship.

  Over the next year of living together as mismatched Velcro strips, we made each other sadder and sadder. I think we both believed that we would get married someday. But then one day I realized that I was being smothered by this life, and that’s why I was having those repeated pillow-smothering dreams.

  The saddest part of all of this was that, faults and all, I believed Nick was a gem among men. I’d tell him, “It’s sad, because I believe that you are one of the best in the bunch. I probably can’t do better, and still our relationship is suffocating me.” In spring 2005, I woke up one day and knew it was over. I couldn’t breathe normally anymore. This wasn’t the life I wanted. I had to make one of the hardest decisions of my life: to break up with Nick, a man who was not only my boyfriend, he was my only family. I had no one else. I wanted our relationship to work, and I wanted to be committed to him forever. I trusted him, but even in couples therapy I felt more and more smothered.

  I didn’t necessarily want to be alone, but to grow I needed to set myself free so that I could go deeper within myself and learn more about who I was and where I fit. But mostly, I needed to heal. I thought I could do that with him and his family present in my life, but the pressures of their expectations were too constraining. I learned that freedom is a real choice, too.

  * * *

  That summer, Nick and I moved out of our apartment. I was sad, yet also overwhelmingly relieved. I took a trip to China to accomplish one of my dreams of studying Mandarin and to have the uncomfortable pleasures of being a foreigner. Beijing was hot, 104° F on a regular basis. I thought about quitting my course and going sightseeing for the remainder of the summer, but I wanted—no, needed—that certificate of completion. I needed a success after my breakup with Nick. And I didn’t ever want to have that conversation with friends about how I just couldn’t finish the course. When I returned home, Nick and I had a few chats to catch up. But by that time, he was seeing someone else. Both of us had moved on. During our last chat, we did a very New-Agey exercise. We forgave each other for everything, even for things that we may not have known caused hurt to the other. After all we had been through, it felt right.

  That summer, Amilah, my eldest niece, explained to me how she had been able to forgive her mother—my sister Rahima—for abandoning them all. My niece simply said, with pain in her voice, “I knew that I wanted my mom in my life, so I forgave her.”

  Here was a great spiritual example of her desire being greater than her pain and anger. I admire my niece’s clarity and strength, and her willingness to forgive. Rahima had stayed clean and sober for almost two years. She was living back in Braddock near her three adult children, aged twenty-six, twenty-two, and nineteen, and near her three grandchildren belonging to my niece. Rahima worked a steady job as a “jitney gypsy” taxi driver. It was all coming together again for her. I had not seen her happier. She was with her grandchildren every weekend, and they loved their Nana so much.

  Then at six o’clock, one October morning in 2006, my mother called to tell me that Rahima’s son, my nephew Ameer, had been shot and killed. My mom and I spoke about the details for a few minutes as I silently wept. Soon after I hung up the phone, I remember feeling frozen. Tears frozen. Life frozen. Heart frozen. This is my sister’s second child. What’s going to happen now to my family, to my sister?

  For a few days I walked the San Francisco streets in a fog. Then, out of the blue, I bumped into Nick. I told him what had happened to my nephew. He hugged me, immediately and tight. His hug gave me strength, enough to fly home and face my family’s latest tragedy.

  Ameer’s story was not the typical one. He wasn’t a gangbanger. He wasn’t a menace to society. In fact, he was an upstanding young citizen. He went to church regularly. He worked two jobs, coached Little League, and was trying out to play semiprofessional baseball. He had purchased a house in the neighborhood and was building a life for himself. He was a role model for other young black men. The mayor, John Fetterman, had recognized him for his leadership ability with the youth, and after the murder
, had the date of Ameer’s death tattooed on his arm.

  My nephew was in the wrong place at the wrong time, shot in the back of the head. Dead—an example too many black boys know all too well. The only image I could picture was a puddle of salty tears and sticky blood mixing on the pavement.

  When I boarded the plane to Pittsburgh, I had my sister on my mind.

  Could she handle another heartbreak?

  * * *

  Rahima seemed to do well with her grief for a while, but then a final, seemingly insignificant straw caused her to break. My sister couldn’t handle the fact that Jackson, Ameer’s dad and her first love, who had said over and over for decades that he would not marry any woman, was finally going to get married. After Ameer’s death, his dad found Christ, became a deacon in the church, and married the woman he had been with for so many years after my sister had gone to Atlanta. My sister was never the same after that. Rahima came back to Pittsburgh, became a recluse, and might have even started using drugs again, but she didn’t let any of us get close enough to her to find out. On different occasions, I heard her mumbling to herself, “He should have married me. He should have married me.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Sahyadri Mountain, Kerala, India

  WHEN I RETURNED TO SAN FRANCISCO from my nephew’s funeral, a lot weighed heavily on my mind. Especially, I wondered whether I would follow through with my plans to spend my winter break at the Sivananda ashram in Kerala, India. Was this the right time to make a pilgrimage to India for my fortieth birthday?

  I boarded the plane to Kerala with a heavy heart. The last two years and the last two decades had been quite a whirlwind. The vortex of events spiraled inside my head. When I buckled my seat belt across my lap, I noticed that I had wanted to disappear from life so much that my physical body had diminished immensely. I had to pull the belt tight to make sure that my waif-like body did not slip out.

  During takeoff I let out a big sigh of relief. I knew that I needed to go halfway around the world to nourish my mind, body, and spirit. It was as if I’d faintly heard Swami Sivananda whisper to me his enchanted words—Serve, Love, Give, Purify, Meditate, Realize. That was what I wanted to give myself for my fortieth birthday, to be in a sacred place with a group of people whose intentions are to serve, love, give, purify, meditate, and self-realize.

  After a few layovers, I finally landed at Trivandrum airport. The air was hot and sensual, even at 2:00 a.m. The heat helped my body begin its initial expansion. I hopped into a local taxi and was on my way.

  On my birthday, I woke up at 5:20 a.m. to the sound of the gong at the Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Ashram. The mountain air was cool as I walked toward the meditation hall. I sat down, thinking, Here is where I can practice the five points of yoga. My body needed to bathe in the asanas of Hatha yoga. My breath needed to reactivate its life force, my prana. My nervous system needed to heal through the deep relaxation of Savasana. My body needed to consume wholesome foods. My mind needed to be still and think positively through meditating and chanting. I was happy that I could do this all day, every day, well into the New Year. The first day was my birthday. No one knew me. No one wished me a happy birthday. I was alone, but not lonely. In a colorful building, without walls, yet it does have pillars, tiled floors, and a concrete ceiling, I was surrounded by 250 people who were each there, practicing the monastic life for reasons of their own. I felt alive.

  The memory of my nephew had been massaged into my heart and although the pain burned it was being lifted each day. I felt his presence each time I chanted his mother’s name—Rahima-Ma. In the midst of these tragic thoughts, my soul kept whispering, Remember him, but don’t get stuck in your grief. Love humanity more.

  The days were routine. I met new people, did my yoga, ate simple food, and cleaned bathrooms. Most days I experienced a healing, but at random times, my heart suffered a crushing pain over my nephew’s death, my sister’s grief, and my breakup with Nick. Some days I wanted to just sleep in and not follow the Sivananda schedule, but that was against the rules. I remembered the swami at my first Satsang saying, “People come to the ashram for many different reasons and something about us attracts them to live this life, so we encourage them to follow the schedule. It usually turns out to be quite beneficial even when they initially resist. No one is held here against their will, but sometimes people won’t do what is necessary until they are told: ‘Here are the rules.’ ”

  I understood him completely. It reminded me of how I’d felt during my yoga teacher training program: I wanted to follow the rules because they might just take me somewhere special.

  During my stay, we were instructed that we would be climbing Sahyadri Mountain before sunrise on several occasions. The first time, we had to wake up at 5:00 a.m. instead of 5:20. We dressed warmly, and several of us wore headlamps to help illuminate the path. Part of our meditation was to walk in silence. We passed barking dogs, some of which we’d been told might have rabies. As we continued our silent walk into the woods, we could peer into one-room shacks made of corrugated metal walls, where we could hear a chicken cluck or a goat bleat. Deeper into the woods, we saw sap oozing from trees into wooden cups hung there to collect the liquid. Later, we learned it was organic latex that would be used for everyday products.

  The path was a winding one, which then became steeper and steeper. While the trees disappeared, stones and rocks filled more of the landscape. As the altitude became higher, a foggy mist surrounded us. We climbed on and on. The day began to break when we were almost at the top. “Take off your shoes and socks from this point on,” our guide said, breaking the silence. I thought, He must be crazy. It’s cold and I can’t afford an injured foot, especially when I’m on vacation. I looked up; the remainder of the rock was a smooth dome, a nearly vertical precipice rising a quarter of a mile to the summit. A quarter mile had never seemed so far away. I can stop here. I can see the horizon just fine. I don’t need to reach the top. What if I scrape my toes or hurt my feet? Why is this a sacred mountain anyway?

  I watched Jade, whom I had nicknamed “G.I. Jade.” She was fearless. She had a double black belt in karate from a sensei in Japan and was fluent in Japanese. When we’d started our walk, I had followed her. She had the confidence and the headlamp. I watched her take off her shoes and socks. Slowly, I took off my shoes, and then my socks. I examined my delicate, bony feet. I rubbed them and said, This is my destiny. These are the kinds of experiences and risks you want to have and take. I have always said, if something bad is going to happen to me, let it be in another country doing something that I deemed important instead of it happening in my own neighborhood because I was afraid to take a risk. I have seen too many tragedies happen to people who haven’t had a chance to really live or leave the block where they were raised.

  Taking the first step, my long narrow foot gripped the mountain, which felt like a cool pumice stone. My head down, breathing hard, afraid of sliding backward, I watched the red polish on my toenails while my toes dug in and my heels clamped down. In order to not fall back, I had to lean forward and place my hands on the spherical mount. I resembled Spider-man. Exhaling, I crawled upward, feeling both scared and powerful.

  Crawling up and up and up, I reached the top. I joined the others who were already seated in meditation. I gazed outward, seeing the clouds and other mountaintops below. The sun’s rays filled the horizon, giving a wide range of hues from red to yellow. Everyone was quiet. Then one of our leaders started up a call and response chant. While I chanted, I could see the faces of my nephew, his mother (my sister), and Nick in the bright sky. Strangely, I felt lifted and encouraged.

  Descending from the top of the mountain was another adventure. I had to sit down on my butt, hands behind me and feet and legs in front of me, or do a crawling crab walk forward. The last quarter mile of this mountain had become a strange metaphor for my life: To reach a peaceful pinnacle, I had to crawl up on all fours; to return to my
basic humanity, I had to creep down humbly on all fours.

  After climbing this mountain a few times during my stay, I felt some strength returning to my body. So much strength that I volunteered to be the emcee for the Christmas event, booking the acts, doing stage-right-stage-left kind of stuff, and generally running the show. This job was fun, but hectic. I enjoyed meeting new people. It was business meets pleasure—entertain them, but make sure we’re all in bed by eleven. In between acts, I had the opportunity to share with the 250 guests some of my personal story. I mentioned that I had started my yoga journey in 1990, became Sivananda certified in 1993, and was celebrating my fortieth birthday and the New Year with a group that has rooted my spirituality. I expressed how grateful I was for this opportunity. At the end of the night, a woman approached me. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her exactly. She said, “You might not remember me, but you were my first yoga teacher.” She put her hand on her heart and continued, “I’m Liz, Liz McDonald from Carnegie Mellon University.”

  “I remember you.” Then we hugged.

  “You gave me my first yoga mat. I am now a yoga teacher because of you,” she said. It had been five years since I had seen her. “Funny running into you,” she continued. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. We changed our plans last minute.”

  “It was meant to be, just when I needed an affirmation that my earlier life meant something to someone,” I told her. While I spoke, I was thinking, I still trust life, its ups and its downs.

  We smiled, my heart glowed, and then she began to fill me in on her journey since graduating from Carnegie Mellon. I also told her about my life in San Francisco. I remember how her face lit up as I told her about teaching nutrition and yoga in the San Francisco Public Schools.