The information contained in this book is based upon the personal and professional experiences of the author. It is not intended as a substitute for consulting with your physician or other healthcare provider. Any attempt to diagnose and treat any physical condition should be done under the direction of a healthcare professional.
The publisher does not advocate the use of any particular healthcare protocol but believes the information in this book should be available to the public. The publisher and author are not responsible for any adverse effects or consequences resulting from the use of the suggestions, preparations, or procedures discussed in this book. Should the reader have any questions concerning the appropriateness of any procedures or preparation mentioned, the author and the publisher strongly suggest consulting a professional healthcare advisor.
CHANGING LIVES PRESS
50 Public Square #1600
Cleveland, OH 44113
www.changinglivespress.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available through the Library of Congress.
Copyright © 2013 by Amy Dewhurst
ISBN: 9780988247659
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
Editor: Shari Johnson
Cover and Interior design: Gary A. Rosenberg
Heartbreak Yoga logo designed by Zoë Kors
Heart Organ (page 6), heart dividing symbol (page 11), Chakra Girl (page 15), and Hanuman (page 246) by Larissa Hise Henoch
Heart chakra image (page 13) by Paul Heussenstamm
Yoga photography and cover photo by Kelli McCarty
Dancing Nataraj (page 86) by David Young-Wolff
Author photo by Rafaela Hess
Cover and yoga model: Jo Newman
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Foreword—Sara Elizabeth Ivanhoe, Master Yogi
Pranams (Acknowledgments)
Introduction
Part I HEART
1. The Physical Heart
2. The Heart Chakra
Part II BREAK
3. That One September
4. Grief
5. A Tale of Two Heartbreaks: East Coast—West Coast
Biggie
Heartbreak Yoga Institute for Research and Inquiry Light Poll of Men and Women I Knew That Indicated Yes, They Did Understand
Loss
Tupac
Heartbreak Syndrome
Grace
Part III YOGA
6. Sara
7. The Practice
8. Yoga Poses
9. Healing
10. Transition
11. Making Space
Letting Go in the Mental Space
Letting Go in the Physical Space
Letting Go in the Energetic Space
Letting Go in the Physiological Space
12. Beyond the Break-up
Dos and Don’ts
Satsang (Community)
Seva (Selfless Service)
Gratitude
Affirmations
Forgiveness
Mantra
13. And More Practice
Krishna Das—Gradually, but Inevitably
And Now a Word from the Experts …
14. Love
Love is …
About the Author
Sara Elizabeth Ivanhoe, Master Yogi, Scholar, Celebrity Wellness Coach, TV Personality
Venice Beach, California • May, 2008
“Sooooo, why do you think you’d want to work for a yoga instructor?”
“Well, I’ve been working in the film industry for years and I just want something more meaningful, something … I can’t really explain it.”
“Uh, huh … ?”
“I know I don’t really have experience in your field, but I’m a fast learner.”
“Ok, well, do you like dogs?”
“Love them. Oh, she’s so cute! What’s her name?”
“Agatha. Aggie. You can call her Ag.”
“Ag. Hi, Ag. I’m Amy. Awww—Ag. Schmag. Can I call her Schmag?”
“Do we have a choice?”
In the yoga world, we call it a “Lila.” The Sanskrit word “Lila” essentially means “play.” The word can refer to watching a play, being playful, or my favorite—when the gods are PLAYING with you.
A few hours earlier, a 27-year-old, hot, blonde Venice surfer chic went into her production job a little too tired and hung over and just snapped. She was, as we say “over it.” When the boss headed out to a meeting, she scanned the internet for job postings and came upon one for a yoga instructor needing help running her business.
“How hard could that be?” she asked herself. “A yoga instructor? You mean get paid to sit around stretching? Sign me up! That job is mine.”
“But it says here that you must love dogs—you’re allergic,” the friend at the next desk jealously rained on the parade.
“I’ll fake it. I’ll keep that smelly thing away from me, it’ll be gone within months. You watch. I’m giving my notice tomorrow.”
The “Lila” joke was on her. If she had known what she was getting herself into, she might never have taken the first step. Who would have known that not only did she become magically un-allergic to dogs, but that Agatha would become her best friend, co-worker, and the catalyst for her heart cracking open. Somehow once it felt safe to love a dog … the flood gates opened. (Turns out that Ag is not really a dog, but a Bodhisattva in a dog’s body—we tricked Amy.) If she had known that she would become an embodied yogini and dedicated to the practice and study of both the physical and philosophical aspects of yoga, she might have said “Um, no thanks. I think I’ll wait for a promotion to production manager and my own parking spot.” Whether it was the gods playing a trick, or just “her path,” down the rabbit hole Amy went.
We are so lucky that she did.
Everyone has their own “How I came to yoga” story. And although yours might not be quite as circuitous as Amy’s was, you took the first step for a reason. If you’ve picked up this book, you’re probably experiencing some sort of pain or grief right now. The bad news is that there is no magic pill to make it all go away. (Okay, there actually are several of them, but if you’re reading this, it means you’re looking for another way.) Yoga is not a cure, but it has helped millions of people for thousands of years navigate all forms of disappointment, rejection and heartbreak.
Whether your wound is old or fresh, whether you have been doing yoga for years or have never said the words “downward facing dog”—this book is for you. It is a vulnerable recount of one woman’s journey that will have you laughing, crying and hopeful that you too, can pick yourself up, dust yourself off—and learn to love again.
Heartbreak Yoga includes a balanced yoga routine with beautiful pictures and detailed instructions on how to practice safely. It gives tips on eating healthy, holistic medicine, meditation and breathing techniques. Amy has called on the yoga community to chime in on the topic of love and has assembled a delicious mixture of inspiring quotes, songs and images—surely ONE of them will get through to you. As we say, “all it takes is one” for it to matter.
Worldly successes rarely feel as good as they are supposed to, but watching Amy grow into a compassionate, loving young woman, has been one of the most rewarding parts of my life. I still find it hard to comprehend that the Tween that flipped her hair in my living room, interrupted my sentences, said “Yeah I got it,” and was “JUST FINE” all the time wrote a book called Heartbreak Yoga. It is a Lila—this time the gods are playing a trick on ME.
After a long writer’s retreat away, Amy just came back to Los Angeles to finish up the book and start a new production job. She teaches yoga to the people in the office, brings healthy food to them for lunch, and is free to creatively chime in with her “yoga wisdom” on creative projects and day-to-day operations.
As the Zen saying goes:
“Before enlightenment—chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment—chop wood, carry water.”
For the home stretch of writing this book, we once again curled up on the couch where I made her wear socks and drink hot drinks. We called on Ag to help us edit, format and make Ujjayi Breath jokes. It’s good to be back. I can now safely say with a smile …
My work here is done.
Sara Elizabeth Ivanhoe
Santa Monica, CA
January 2013
With deepest love, gratitude, laughter and tears, in celebration, sadness and memory of my beloved friend, Chris Miller.
I love you more than words can tell.
xo
Sri Sri Mata Amritananadamayi Devi
Danny Ducovny
John & Claire Dewhurst
Laura Amazzone
Vanessa-Ma Harris
Mukti Silberfein
Sridhar Silberfein
The Heartbreak Yoga Team
Photographer: Kelli McCarty
Models: Jo Newman & Paul Teodo
Yoga Tech Advisor: Brianna Welke
Ground Support: Zoë Kors, Craig Garfinkle, Eimear Noone, Heather Reinhardt & Mariel Hemingway
For the Love & the Lessons
Shari Johnson, Francesca Minerva, Ellen Ratner, Barbara Kopple, David Cassidy, Larissa Henoch, Carol & Gary Rosenberg, Robert P. Williams, Jon Dadbin, Chris Montgomery, Dan Horton, Jim Phillips, Karyn Dilworth, Nanci Done, Lee Runchey, Kevin DeSoto, Alison Mason, Kare Morelli, Robert Schnitzer, Craig Kessler, Richard Hernandez, Joe Boiadjian & Marla, Samantha Whidby, Cody, Bella & Flower Silberfein, Noah P. Christensen, Durga Das (David), Mira, Tulsi & Han Newman, Brett Mazurek (DJ 3rdi), Neem Das (Chris Morro), Radha Baum, Shiva Baum, Dana Min Goodman, Dan Steinberg, Govindas, Radha & Malachi Rosen, Zach Leary, Cosibella Cristenas, Kripa Robb, Karen Felice, Ana Maria Arumi, LA & NYC Amma Satsangs, Bhagavandas, Ram Dass, Krishna Das, Paravati Marcus, Denise Kaufman, Chani-Ma Nicholas, Mary Arden Collins, Mark & Bodhi Gorman, Nina Rao, Arjun Bruggeman, Genevieve Walker, David Nichtern, Devadas, Jeremy Frindel, Mark Whitwell, Kia Miller & Tommy Rosen, MC Yogi, Nick, Amanda & Mo Giacomini, Doug E. Fresh, Jai Uttal, Wah! Sarah Thompson, Terri Seiden, Kim Surowicz, Jennifer Quail, Jessica Lustgarten, Chris “Boyband” DeAngelis, Tudor Jones, Matt McNeill, Tim Frylinck, Jon Tortarella, Matt Mason, Chris “Coney Island” Vendetti, Local Zeros, Amanda & Eric Borja, Annie & Sean Gessell, Janet & Jerry Zucker, Alan Loeb, Donny, Lydia Silverman, Jamie Wright-Holding, Denis O’Sulivan, Jesse Toledano, Dan Cone & 363 Films, Matt Gordon, Lisa Barrett, Jenny & Norman Ollestad, Selena Palmieri Gable, Sharon Funke, Dawn Bridgewater, The Carey Family, The Baker Family, The Anthony/ Thomas/Jones Family, Justin Cohen, Les Koll, Shakuntala & Lolli, Bud, Michele Esrick, Meghan Kennedy Townsend, Gary Deutschman, Brody McHugh, My Lunch Table, Gina Podley, Carrie Grossman, Mandy Ingber, Perrey & Murray, Pete DeYoung, Evan Ross, Tracy Colombus, Tom Schey, Patti Hawn & Steve Middledorf, Suzanne Inez & Lalania Hudson, Gigi Gaston, Margot Dougherty, Catherine Soliman, Diane Antonia, Shima Razavi, Kadi Rodriguez, David & Julie Zucker, Richard B. Lewis & The Lewis Family, Gaby Jerou & The Tabak Family, Kirsten Sheridan & The Sheridan-McDonald Family, Susan, Jim Jim, Emma & Ava Murphy, Gerald & Francine Torino, The LaForge/Lucey Family, The Murphy/Owens/Madigan Family, The Heinzinger/Myers Family, Kim Seidler and The Seidler Family, The Kulesz/Lanni Family, The Terilizzis, The Fitzpatrick Family, The Landis Family, Annie Frylinck & The Frylinck Family, Kerri Tortarella & The Tortarella Famliy, Nicole & Mike Sandberg, The Sandberg Family, Cyndi Smith Taltry, Doug Corbett, Chris Byrne, Owens, Bernard, Johnny, Sabella, Wondra, Eidschun, Ilg, and The River Dell Starting Line Up, Cynthia & Ara Khoriozian, The Carberry Family, The Rodriguez Family, Travis Eliot, Zach, Jorie, Liam, Kaia & Quinn Gallagher, Peter, Birgitta, Jake & Danny Breen, Kerri Branin, Melissa Halverson, Jean Pesce, Diana Jackson & Jamie O’Keefe, The Kuehne Family, The Quail Family, Nick, Vernoy, Jessica & Nicole Paolini, Dana Pustetta, Jay Burke, Mike Ponce, DJ Goldberg, Lisa Burgess, Annie Dickson, Beautiful Sarah Ivy, Miles Catalano, Dr. David Haberman, Deepak & Lana Ramapriyan, Brick Wallace, Evan Weinstein, Lee A. Hutton, III, Sylvia Allen, Karthik Dhandapani, Thomas Joseph Tobin, The Miller Family, The Weiner- Family, Aggie-Ji Ivanhoe, Vernoy Joret, Swanini Krishnamrita Prana, The 90291, The Bhakti Fest Family, The YogaWorks Family, Bhakti Yoga Shala, The First Congregational Church of River Edge, Sri Neem Karoli Baba, All the saints, guides and gurus on the path before, during and after, and of course …
Sara Elizabeth Ivanhoe.
(All roads lead home.)
Jai Ma!
Xo
“I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.”
—HAFIZ, 14TH CENTURY PERSIAN MYSTIC POET
HEARTBREAK IS THE WORST.
If someone told you that sticking needles in your eyes would alleviate the pangs of misery bellowing in your low belly, it would be pincushion city faster than you can say, “heal.” Humans are the only species to engage in mating rituals for any reason other than procreation. The Museum of Natural History Department of Systematic Biology estimates there are between three and thirty million species living on the planet. We are among the ELEVEN who attempt monogamy. Our fellow matefor-lifers include swans, lobsters, wolves, French angelfish, turtledoves, gibbons, black vultures, albatrosses, prairie voles, bald eagles, and termites.
I wonder how many termites sit at home on Friday night chomping on take-out pinewood, crying to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.”
“But the Save-the-Dates already went out!”
“Pass the support beam appetizer, will ya?”
The anguish of heartbreak has brought us Casablanca, Led Zeppelin riffs and seasons one through ten of Friends.
We give guys our numbers, e-mail addresses and Facebook names. We text, flirt, pick out a new outfit, get ready for dinner only to be disappointed. We’re bummed and home by the 11:30 p.m. showing of Friends. We tune in hoping Ross and Rachel will pull it together and just admit they love each other this time. But they don’t.
So why do we do it to ourselves?
Why do we get back on the horse?
Why do we believe there are plenty of fish in the sea?
A lid for every pot?
And all the other underhanded cheerleads our loved ones pressure us with while RSVP-ing to black tie events?
“Is she bringing anyone special?” Don’t you think if there were someone special I would have been invited “AND GUEST” ?!?
Let’s admit it, Wonder Women of the new millennium, we do it because we know if we really want it, the right person is out there. We believe true love makes all the pain worth it and because at some point, every story has a happy ending.
It only takes one.
(Om.)
I am a Jersey Girl living in LA by way of New York City. This makes me the requisite recipient of the “I’m heartbroken can I come visit?” phone call. The terms and techniques contained within are the ones that have helped my TV-watching, beer-drinking, cigarette- smoking, chicken parm hero-eating girls and guys from back East. From within my Venice Beach apartment we have handled romantic heartbreaks, pink slips, and the emotional withdrawals of quitting white powdery substances, prescription pharmaceuticals and cigarettes. We even deep breathed through a “the wedding is off” text message (yes, a text message). I’m honored to have opened up my pullout couch and served digestible portions of organic granola and Guru Gita wisdom during their commercial break.
This book is a collection of stories, conversations, heartbreaks, lovemakes, the ticker and the hope that keeps us all going. There are approximately as many Ancient Allegories as there are pop culture references per page.
Like anything passed down over 5,000 years, there are infinite interpretations of these proverbs, lessons and yoga asana postures. The forthcoming are merely one woman’s modern-day application of this wisdom, as she understands it.
Many of the terms you’ll read are translated from Ancient Vedic Sanskrit. Hopefully you will enjoy the language lessons as much as I have. Here’s the first one: The word “Namasté” means: “The higher self in me, bows down to the higher self in you.” There are many “riffs” off this greeting, including my favorite: “The light within me, sees the light within you.”
Have you ever been to a Christmas Eve church service when Silent Night is sung in darkness? A single candle is lit off the altar flame. That single candle lights the candle of the person next to them, until that flame has traveled all the way around the sanctuary. Everyone “Oohs” and “Aahs,” marveling at the renewed beauty this perspective provides.
Sometimes it takes a little darkness to see how much light surrounds you. Sometimes you need to be humble enough to hold out your candle, to see how many people support you. You would not have picked up this book if you weren’t already glowing on the inside—if your candle was not meant to be lit.
You will get through this.
You are not alone.
You are stronger than you think.
The light within me, sees the light within you.
Namasté!
Amy
Xo
“Whatever comes to meet us, know the darkness won’t defeat us. Stay strong, keep your faith alive.”
—DAVID NEWMAN & FRIENDS
“Love is the strongest medicine. It is more powerful than electricity.”
—SRI NEEM KAROLI BABA (MAHARAJ-JI)
“AME?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Dad. Mom had a heart attack. They don’t think she is going to make it. She has four blocked arteries. She’s in surgery now. The doctors are not hopeful. They said, …”
“What?!?! I’m getting on a plane. Will she be … ? She has to be! Dad, she has to be!”
“Ame, calm down. I don’t know. All we can do now is pray.”
My precocious “Law of Attraction”-loving self, suddenly wasn’t so sure that our subconscious mind created every condition. I focused clearly on receiving good news upon landing. I pictured my mom well, making Thanksgiving dinner, decorating the Christmas tree, and my sharing with her every detail of every adventure, from whatever crazy corner of the universe I was calling collect from this time.
As I boarded the flight, I let go of my attempts to be in mental control of my mom’s destiny. I prayed in earnest that whatever was best for her soul was what would occur. And that whatever occurred, I would be strong enough to survive.
One thing was for sure—I had to look in an old address book for God’s phone number. It had been quite a long time since I reached out to that guy. Five years to be precise. One September he stopped returning my calls, so I stopped calling. I figured, What’s the point?
He/She/It must have been surprised to be receiving frantic phone calls on every one of His/Her/It’s lines. I was like an actor late for an audition. I called my agent, the regular office line, the assistant’s number, the studio’s number. I tried the 800 number and when I didn’t get through on any of those I tried God’s direct dial, the bat phone used only for emergencies.
Hey, God, it’s Amy Dewhurst. We met at the First Congregational Church in River Edge, New Jersey. I’m the one who narrates the Christmas Pageant every year. Oh, thanks. Yeah, it’s fun. Everyone really enjoys it. We appreciate your blessing. Sorry I haven’t been in touch lately. It’s just I left you a bunch of messages in September of 2001, and I’m not sure if your assistant didn’t pass them along, or maybe you called back and my voicemail was full or something? I never heard back from you, so I thought maybe I had done something to offend you, or you just weren’t interested in me anymore.
Anyway … sorry to only call when I need something, but I was wondering if you could do me a solid? My mom, Claire, is in surgery. I’m pretty sure you two know each other. She was a deacon at the church, was in the PTA, worked full-time, made Sunday dinner for my entire family, making sure all the widowers left with a doggie bag. Yes, exactly! That’s her. She is in surgery now. I don’t mean to meddle, I’m sure you have a plan, but I’ve never really been great at minding my own business, so, if there’s anything you can do, I would really appreciate it. And God, I’m sorry I let our relationship fade away. I’m sure your inbox was overflowing that September. Let’s not let it go so long next time, huh?
This cycle of faith, doubt, mental focus and desperate prayers spun for six solid hours, from wheels up to wheels down, along the airport corridor and into my dad’s poker face. I searched his eyes for answers. Never one to express emotion, he just nodded his head “yes.”
Hey God, It’s Amy Dewhurst again. We met at the First Congregational Church in River Edge. I’m the one who narrates … oh, okay, cool. I just wanted to say thanks for returning my call. I’m glad we’re back in touch. Speak soon.
Six years later, I spoke with Dr. Richard Peterson about those six hours. While my hands were clasped in prayer at my heart, my mom’s heart was in his hands, literally. Dr. Peterson is the thoracic surgeon who, in a code red, cut my mom’s heart open, got out all the gunk, and sewed her back up—even better than new. The cartoon version of Dr. Peterson leaps around The Dewhurst Household like a lightning bolt, wearing medical scrubs and a red satin cape. The real man I met deflects these adulations, telling me “A quarterback is only as good as their team.” In that analogy, Dr. P is the heart organ’s Tom Brady, the obvious interviewee for the forthcoming inquiry:
Amy: What is the heart?
Dr. Peterson: The heart’s job is really simple. It’s a pump. It circulates blood throughout the body. The blood vessels pump blood through the lungs, to get oxygen, and it has to provide enough blood pressure in conjunction with the arteries to profuse blood to all your organs, your liver, your brain and all that. Then there’s an electrical system that keeps the “lub dub, lub dub” [he imitates the sound of a beating heart] going.
Amy: Can you tell me what a thoracic surgeon is? What exactly you do?
Dr. Peterson: By the time I see people, they are all pretty much in dire straits. All preventive measures are gone. People mainly have blocked heart arteries, bad heart valves, cancer, or bad infection in the lungs. To overcome problems we repair heart valves or bypass heart arteries, or do both of those. You know from your mom, it’s not a small thing; these surgeries are extremely invasive on the body.
Amy: Can you walk me through the process?
Dr. Peterson: Usually we cut into the chest, patient is asleep, obviously, we put the patient on a heart and lung machine and stop the heart, and then do whatever we are going to do—put in a valve or do a bypass, then start the heart back up again.
Amy: So let me get this straight, you literally rip the heart open?
Dr. Peterson: Yes.
Amy: Are Sita and Ram really in there? (Excitedly and unconsciously making a reference to The Ramayana, an ancient Hindu Epic, I spend a lot of time thinking about.)
Dr. Peterson: What’s that?
Amy: Never mind. Can you tell me what is in the heart?
Dr. Peterson: Love of course! And blood vessels.
This is what is known as the circulatory system.
The heartbeat is made up of systole and diastole, which are the two stages of a heartbeat.
Systole: Stage when the ventricles of heart are contracting, resulting in blood being pumped out to the lungs and the rest of the body.
Diastole: Stage when the ventricles of the heart are relaxed and not contracting. During this stage, the atria are filled with blood and pump blood into the ventricles.
“There is a light that shines beyond all things on earth, beyond the highest, the very highest heavens. This is the light that shines within our heart.”
—CHANDOGYA UPANISHAD
IN THE WISDOM TRADITIONS OF THE EAST—Hinduism, Buddhism and their denominations, the physical human body, the ten fingers, ten toes and everything they’re connected to is called the gross body. Beyond that is the subtle body, the energy in and around the body. We might call it someone’s “Aura,” “Vibe” or even “Mojo.”
The subtle body is reflective of the seven main energy centers of the body called “chakras.” Directly translated, chakra means “wheel.” It also means “turning” or “spinning.” So these chakras, these energy centers in the body, are literally turning and spinning and having a grand ol’ time; or, sometimes, they are sitting in the corner with their party hats on and crying because the boy they like asked a different girl to dance.
In this system, the “Heart Chakra” resides in the “Heart Organ”—the one I recently watched Dr. Peterson cut open from behind the observation glass. (And for all you Ramayana Fans, I’m pretty sure I did see Sita and Ram in there).
My friend Govindas built and cares for a temple, ashram and yoga school dedicated to the Heart Chakra. It is called Bhakti Yoga Shala. The programming serves the heart-based yoga heritage of Bhakti Yoga. Here, students learn yoga asana (physical yoga), meditation (mental attunement), kirtan (singing bhajans and mantra), satsang (community) and seva (selfless service). The Bhakti tradition dates back 5,000 years to India and made its way west to The United States on that cosmic wave called Be Here Now, the 1960s subculture classic book that turned on an entire generation.
In present day Malibu, CA, Govindas tunes in:
“The Heart Chakra is called the Anahata Chakra, which means the unstruck sound. Which is just this vast, eternal, unending space, and deep inside the heart chakra is what is called the hridayam. The hridayam is what the yogis recognize as the spiritual heart. Now it is in the heart chakra too that “atman,” “the soul” lives in the heart. So, the heart is the center and in Bhakti yoga, we recognize the absolute center of the universe is the heart. Bhakti is called the path of heart. So we live through our heart. We play through our heart. We practice yoga from our heart. We live our lives from our heart.”
The continued contents of that conversation contained his inquiry into my love life, an exchange of ideas about God, Guru, Self, bhakti elders, next generation seekers and concluded with taking a peak at his napping two-year-old son. If a sleeping baby’s sigh isn’t proof there is a God, I’m not sure anything is.
This contemplation inspired me to drop out.
The Seven Chakras
7th Sahasrara Chakra
6th Ajna Chakra
5th Visuddha Chakra
4th Anahata Chakra
3rd Manipura Chakra
2nd Svadisthana Chakra
1st Muladhara Chakra
I left my job as vice president of production at Mariel Hemingway’s Film Company. I jumped on my yoga mat and wrote this book. I have never cared for relying on other people, so didn’t want to wait for Dr. Peterson to leap in during a code red to get the gunk out of my heart. I knew I was strong enough and brave enough to do it myself. You are too.
“Go with your heart. Your heart always knows … “
—GOVINDAS
“Brokedown Palace”
—THE GRATEFUL DEAD
IT WAS A TYPICAL, MIDDLE CLASS, SUBURBAN COMMUNITY smelling of freshly cut lawns. Behind picket fences were well-meaning but nosey neighbors and Detroit-built SUVs. The teens made out on church retreats, smoked spliffs on their way to varsity practice and sang Syd Barrett Songs as they aced the SATs. Proud parents snapped photos at prom parties, comparing curfews, report cards and whose virginity was still believed to be intact. Fourth of July Fireworks fell down on Memorial Fields as “The Boss” blasted from beer trucks. We were proud to be “Born in the USA.”
There were the typical triple “our town” tragedies: horrific earth-shattering car accidents, awful overdoses and the stand alone suicide. This community came together in joy and grief like a Grecian epic, getting good at repurposing embroidered black funeral wear for Little Suzie’s wedding just by adding a colorful wrap.
Then there was that one September when we perfected the skill. Our small pond police chief would go to Ground Zero to get the bodies, as Claire at Beaugard’s would make a place for them to rest. The main street was short and the words were few. “Todd. Thursday.” No one needed to say much more than that—time and funeral parlor location were well understood. I was working on Wall Street and going to school in the city. Based on proximity, willing creativity and the irrepressible urge to grieve optimistically, I took over “Celebrating the Life of …” collage duty. The college kids would comment on my compositions, coming home on weekends for wakes.
My group of Jersey Girls became like a team of professional, fashionable mourners, trading in our standard issue 20-something Steve Madden Shoes for more reasonable flats. The grief/heat combo of standing room only funeral services always concluded with a fainting or two. I observed early on it was the girls in three-inch-plus heels who had to lock out their knees to stand up straight that were usually the first to hit the floor. But who could blame them? They wanted to say goodbye to their first loves in style. “It’s what he would’ve wanted me to wear,” she said, uncharacteristically strong. We stood together sobbing as Scooter, her 20-year-old atheist, anti-establishment boyfriend’s corpse was being carried out of the Catholic Church, draped in an American Flag.
First the leaves fell, then the snows came. Stockings were hung from the chimney with care, in hopes that “The Missing” would soon be there. New Years’ Resolutions consisted of “Please God, if you bring ________ home, I promise, I will never ________ again.” It was around Valentine’s Day the DPW finally cleared the crowded commuter parking lot. If there was no DNA discovered, they would donate unclaimed cars to the fire department for “scared straight” DUI drills during driver’s ed.
We buried empty caskets, and with them, mom and dad’s dream that little John-o’s job in the big city would afford him a slightly better life than they had had; an extra AC in the den, power windows & vacations “down the shore,” even during leaner years.
Meanwhile, Back at Work … combat soldiers with uzis had been deployed downtown. The Bull and The Bear were barren. Subways, sidewalks, StairMasters and bar stools were all eerily empty. Government issued IDs allowed entry to the cobblestone streets of Old New York. There you would frantically search the faces of survivors striding past.
Desperate families would plead with handmade flyers, “Have you seen my dad/mom/husband/wife/brother/sister/son/daughter/lover/neighbor/ rabbi/priest/dog/cat/fiancé/ friend …?” A regretful shake of the head was the default response. You couldn’t make eye contact with the families. You could barely breathe from the ever-escaping fumes.
There was a woman at The New York Sports Club who would ALWAYS take my treadmill during my assigned time. She would pretend she couldn’t see me waving the sign-up sheet in her direction over her Financial Times newspaper. She would pretend she couldn’t hear me shouting “Excuse me, your time is up!” over her Sony Discman tracks and StarTAC cell phone calls. She would pretend she couldn’t respond, having just taken a big sip of Pepsi from the can. She would pretend she couldn’t feel me tapping her shoulder. Of course not, she was winging her bony Rolex & Harry Winston-clad arms around trying to fling me off. I hated that bitch and her gorgeous red Kate Spade bag. She loathed me, Miss PYT, probably 30 years her junior, flagging around the stupid treadmill sign-up sheet, indignant about time.
Her tycoon husband had left her for a younger woman before I had even been born. She learned to day trade out of divorcée defiance, victoriously taking over 51 percent of his brokerage firm. You know what they say about a woman scorned—she joins the boys’ club at Harry’s in Hanover Square and smokes Cuban cigars just a few minutes after burning the bras. She felt, despite NYSC standards, she was entitled to the extra fifteen minutes of cardio at my workout’s expense. “Show some respect for your elders!” she spewed.
That ornery old bitch was one of the first recognizable faces I frantically scanned in early October. With overwhelming relief, I fell into her ugly old chicken-arms. I cried grateful but silent sobs, as she wailed aloud, “Thank God you are okay, I have been looking for you everywhere, I knew you commuted on the PATH Train, I thought … Oh God, Sweetie, thank God you are ok. Thank you God. Thank you God. Thank you God.”
But that story was just one in a million (1 in 2,997, to be more precise). Never again did I see the funny, sweet guys from Fire Company #5 who teased me each time I emerged from the World Trade Center’s basement mall, Banana Republic bag in hand:
“Uh, Oh, somebody didn’t make it home laaaast night.”
“Woo-hoo, walk of shame shopping trip.”
“Hey Bertolino, your girlfriend’s cheatin’ on ya.”
“Ah ha ha ha …”
The homeless woman who slept on the steps of Trinity Church:
“Alms for the poor? Thank you. God bless you.”
Gloria, the woman who worked at Mangia Deli, who took the lunchtime delivery orders over the phone:
“Amy, Kerri & Dan? One twenty Wall Street, right? The usual for you guys?”
My personal trainer Blythe:
“One more rep, you can do it, I believe in you …”
My friend Todd:
“Hey, I’m going to make the 7:14 train, can I grab ya a Heineken for the ride home?”
My friend Jen’s dad, Mr. Fialco:
“Give your old man a call. Tell him I’ll drop ya home on my way. Save ’im a trip to the train station.”
And many, many, many more …
What wasn’t conveyed in those overused images of the towers tumbling down was the innate silence the city suddenly fell under. Well, that and the smell. I’m not brave enough even to begin a description of the smell. A re-watch of “Schindler’s List,” “Born on the Fourth of July,” or “Glory” may help you imagine it. Sucking in dry wall dust during a renovation might help you breathe it. Add to that the paranoid fear of a cop driving behind you after you’ve had three glasses of wine at dinner, or the way your hair stands on end in historically spooky spaces—Alcatraz, Amityville, Auschwitz. There. That’s the zygote of a description. I’m braver than I thought. You probably are too.
I tell you this grim tale not as a victim, but as a survivor of earth-quaking, building-breaking, heart-shattering, soul-squeezing, mind-numbing, God-questioning, wholly humbling, totally vulnerable, on-my-knees, “How could this have happened?” heartbreak. Some forthcoming melodramas may have seemed hysterical and ungrounded otherwise.
With love and respect to all who survived, and especially to those who didn’t, I’m grateful to have had the following experiences. I missed my train that Tuesday morning.
“My City of Ruins”
—BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN
“ …When I think back to that time, I was so sure someone must have the answer. I wanted someone to tell me how to make my life-pain free. Looking back, I can’t imagine who I thought got through their entire lives and managed to avoid the pain. Now I realize there is not now nor has there ever been a single person on this planet who has successfully avoided the pain of being a human.
“Pain is part of the deal.”
—GURMUKH KAUR KHALSA
PHASES OF GRIEF
Effects of Grief on the Physical Body
Unpredictability of Emotions:
Numbness:
Sadness & Yearning:
Relief & Guilt:
Regrets:
Anxiety, Worry & Fear:
Mental Confusion:
Anger:
OR
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
—PSALMS 34:18
IN THIS FIRST PERSON ACCOUNT OF BI-COASTAL HEARTBREAK, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. However, some names have been changed to protect the guilty. If you are enraged, please contact me privately circa cabbage night for egging addresses. No drive-bys.
“As for lovers, well, they’ll come and go too. And babe, I hate to say it, most of them—actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can’t give up because if you give up, you’ll never find your soul mate. You’ll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much to smile about.”
—MARILYN MONROE
The notorious CJB or “Biggie,” as we will henceforth refer to him was a hot popular senior at a neighboring high school. I was a freshman running around barefoot Sharpie-ing Grateful Dead Lyrics onto Converse One Stars while he dated adult women and drove fast cars. He was Mr. “2 Cool” from Adventures in Babysitting with bedroom eyes—even at 17. We met at a hotel party. Remember those? Someone’s older brother rented a $69/night room at the HoJo and snuck in a 30-pack of MGDs? Boys left hung-over. Girls left hickied. Everyone reeked of stale cigarette smoke and Drakkar Noir. Chickenheads in booty pants came in and out of that room like a Beastie Boys Music Video audition line, laughing at lame jokes, trying to hold Biggie’s glance a moment too long. They batted their eyelashes, bra straps and Blunt wrappers like they had heard the sweet sounds of Krishna’s Flute. It was as entertaining as it was nauseating.