I’m in the final weeks of publishing my book. Just typing that sentence has opened the floodgates; the tears are streaming down my cheeks one minute in. Yikes.
My dad is somewhere in the heavens smiling down and crying right along with me. As I’ve mentioned, he gave me these crying genes. My mom wasn’t a crier, but she’s nonetheless wearing a smile.
When my dad died, my parents lived in Petaluma. My first husband Ron and I traveled up to Petaluma to bring my mom down to the funeral in the Bay Area. It was a somber journey. We had my dad’s burial suit hanging on the hook in the back seat on the passenger’s side. Ron and I were sitting in the front, my mom in the backseat.
As we drove through Marin toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I felt something brush against the back of my head/neck. My eyes were closed, and I thought it was Ron reaching over to console me. I appreciated the gesture.
As I opened my eyes, I could see that Ron’s hands were on the steering wheel. When I turned around, I found that it was the sleeve of my dad’s suit jacket flipping forward, blowing in the wind. To this day, I’m not even sure how that could happen with the front window open, but it did. And I didn’t really need or want to make sense of it.
On that day, and ever since, I understood it was my dad reaching out one last time physically. I closed my eyes and embraced the connection. Continue reading here.
Tales of a Wayward Yogini 