Dear Harry

Dear Harry

It’s been exactly one month and one day since I came home with you from visiting the vet and found you’d passed away on the journey back.

I had a pretty good day today: meditation workshop at the nice yoga studio where I did my AntiGravity Yoga teacher training; catching up for fellow classmates from AGY teacher training; lunch out in Midori, a Japanese restaurant out in Bintaro; good conversation over lunch about yoga and meditation and philosophy and quantum states.

I got errands run and gave small gifts of food and favours (and giving makes me happy). I even found the time and energy to go to the gym and make myself lightheaded on the elliptical.

And then I sat on the big flat beanbag on the floor (remember how you loved that beanbag?) and ate an entire can of tuna and watched TV and played music on Spotify and read while waiting for your papa to get home.

It was a nice day. Productive. Lots of positive experiences. I really enjoyed thinking and talking about how the discipline of breath meditation relates to learning to accept yourself as you are while working towards perfection, and how those seem to be mutually exclusive but don’t have to be. It was a mind- and heart-opening discussion, and I’m struck again by how what I’m reading (Yalom’s Schopenhauer Cure) is echoed in what’s happening in my life and mind.

And today I was blessed because there was very little traffic on the roads. Thank you for that gift, Jakarta!

As I was sitting there on the beanbag after my good day, I was reminded again that despite all the bad things that have happened this year—my accident, your passing, for one—and the multiple stressors I’m experiencing, I am basically and fundamentally quite happy at this point in my life. It’s not that things don’t go wrong. It’s not that I don’t get angry or upset or agitated. It’s that despite all these things I am, deep down, content.

But you know, I would have been that much happier if you’d been hanging out with me on the beanbag like in the past.

I still miss you and think of you every day. I miss your funny face. In the evenings when I go to switch the lamps on, I still expect to see your eager twitching nose going a dozen times a second and you periscoping madly as you wait for me to feed you. I miss your company especially late at night, and think of all those nights in the last year we hung out together on the carpet. You were a great companion.

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I miss you every day. I hope to see you again someday, at the other end of the Rainbow Bridge, with Rufus.

Love you,
Mama

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