Until We Meet Again

Feb 03, 2018 by Renee Linnell
We have no idea how much we heal others simply by healing ourselves. The ripples go out into the world far and wide. When we survive something difficult, anything difficult, everyone that watches us heal can then rely on that strength when life comes along and smashes them.

I euthanized my cat on Wednesday. My goddess. My love. My Buddha. My soul mate. As much as I do love humans, I have never bonded with one the way I have bonded with my cats. Well, my cat. Singular. The same being that comes back to me over and over. Ok, I was close to my father; probably as close as I was to my cat. But, he died when I was 15 and I have only known love like that with my cats since. Cat. Singular. Same being; different bodies.

I sit in a white fuzzy chair by my fireplace with my heart broken as I type these words. It
has only been two days since I said “goodbye”. Less than 48 hours, actually. The pain is
still raw and fierce and wells up within me like a wave, bringing me to my knees and even
a fetal position on the floor. And I allow it to. And then I let it pass. I hear my little kitty Buddha soul mate say to me: “Get up, Mom. I’m not gone. You know that. I’m coming back. I just had to switch out bodies.”

And the crazy thing is: I do know that. And it still hurts like hell. If anyone believes she is coming back, it’s me. If anyone believes she is still with me energetically, it’s me. If anyone believes there
is never separation, it is me. And still, the pain of not being able to snuggle and touch and hold and kiss her little furry body rises up within me and grips my body with an anguish so intense I cannot breathe.

“I miss you little monkey,” I say to her, between sobs. “I miss you so much.”
“I know, Mom,” she responds.  “But pull it together. I’m coming back.” She says.

And I realize: this is where my spiritual practice comes into play. This is where I walk my talk. All the training I’ve done on controlling my thoughts comes into play now. Here. With this situation. I can choose dark sad thoughts that spin me into despair or I can choose happy thoughts that fill me with joy. I can turn towards her final days and moments; I can relive them, the sadness and my fear. Or I can turn towards all the love we shared and then think about the future and how wonderful it will be to have her back. One thought stream brings me unbearable pain, and I feel my mind and my body squeeze tight, constrict, close off to the Stream of Well Being that constantly flows through us. The other thought stream expands me. I feel lighter and more open. I feel lifted to a place of supreme peace. And then I feel Pele smiling. Happy. Saying, “That’s my mom.” And I realize, it is only in this high state of mind that I have access to Pele in non-physical. Even though I know she is still with me and will always be a part of me, only when my mind is in a really high vibration can I hear her.

But, I digressed. Back to my opening. About how we heal others simply by healing ourselves. As I forget my clarity and I turn towards thoughts of sadness and separation and allow them to consume me I think about my friend Allison who lost her beloved German shepherd Chow mix this summer. She survived. She loved him as much as I loved Pele and she survived. She is happy now. I think of my friend Sandy who, after 13 years of marriage is finalizing her divorce. He had been her best friend for close to 18 years and she survived. She is thriving. I think of my friend Fiona who, on a morning walk with her husband last year, rushed him to the emergency room where he had emergency open heart surgery. She survived. She almost lost the father of her children and her best friend and partner for over 20 years and she survived.

And all of these stories give me strength. “I, too, will make it through this,” I tell myself. “I, too, will come out the other side and be happy again.”

And then I think of Kahlil Gibran saying so eloquently in his amazing book The Prophet:  “The deeper that sorrow cuts into your being, the more joy you can contain.” And in another passage, “Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain. And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy.”

And I marvel at how strong we humans are. How we can get utterly knocked down to our knees and get back up again, over and over and over and over. How we can open our hearts so completely, love so fully, and then have the object of our love taken from us…and then eventually sign ourselves up to love that fully again.

When I was crying yesterday I asked Pele how it was that I had a vision of her healthy and back to eight pounds (she had dropped down to 5.5) on my new patio furniture this spring or summer and she replied, “Because you were seeing my new body, Mom. It was just faster and much more efficient for me to transition out of this one than it would have been for me to try to heal it. Plus, you need six months without me. You have to travel again. You have to go to Hawaii and Argentina and Florida and Austin and San Diego. And, you have to turn into the woman that can have a cat and a life.”

When I was crying today she told me I had to stop crying and pick out the new patio furniture. Then I had to plan my trips and book my tickets. She said in just a little bit of time I will see how perfectly this all plays out. And, you know what, I believe her.