The day before leaving for the Kingdom of Bhutan, I squeezed in an appointment with my acupuncturist. While the primary purpose of my session was to help control hot flashes, it also afforded me the opportunity to discuss whatever else was going on with my life that acupuncture might address.
Walking into the office, I had no idea that this particular appointment would be so significant. It had been just three years and two months since I held my mother’s hand when her visit on this earth ended. Her passing from a stroke, which coincided with the Covid 19 pandemic, was the culmination of a five-year journey with Lewy body dementia.
Prior to the manifestation of her dementia, she had an adventurous streak. Even in her 70s and 80s, she was still always eager to try something different, whether it was snorkeling in the Galapagos Islands, sea kayaking in Alaska, flying with the “doors off” in a helicopter over an erupting volcano, or riding a bicycle for the first time. We shared many wonderful memories together and were very close.
As her dementia slowly progressed, her fun-loving spirit was no longer present. New memories were created that suppressed those of her younger years.
Following her stroke, I was granted a “compassionate visit” during a time in the pandemic when many family members were not allowed to be with their loved ones. It was my greatest gift to be with her for the final five days of her life, including when she took her last breath. Nevertheless, images of that time stuck in my brain, often surfacing when I awakened in the middle of the night.
When my acupuncturist, Mark, asked me how I was sleeping, I shared my struggle with those images. Understanding the depth of my feelings, he instructed me to get onto the acupuncture table, lie relaxed on my back, close my eyes, and envision a happy picture of my mom. I recalled a photo of her standing at the foot of a set of stairs on the Samba, the vessel for our Galapagos Islands adventure. She stood a bit sideways assuming a Betty Grable pose. A broad-brimmed hat tipped to one side of her head; she had a twinkle in her eye and a bright smile on her face.
While I held that photo in my mind, Mark began. As the needles released suppressed grief, tears streamed down my cheeks. After the session ended and the needles were removed, I rose from the table, literally feeling physically lighter as though a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. At that moment, I decided to take a copy of the photo to Bhutan. Then after hiking up to the Tiger’s Nest Monastery, which is perched on the side of a mountain at 10,232 feet, I would leave it in the temple.
Returning home, I searched for the photo. While doing so, I decided instead to print two copies of a picture of my mom and me while on a trip to Hawaii. In the photo, our heads are tilted toward each other and both of us have radiant smiles. It was a lovely reminder of our closeness and her fun-loving spirit.
After John and I arrived in Bhutan, I noticed that in contrast to Buddhist temples elsewhere in Asia, in Bhutan, worshippers left offerings of money and food, but nothing else. As a result, I began to feel uneasy about leaving one of the photos at the Tiger’s Nest, which we would visit at the end of our stay.
Five days into our trip, we arrived in the Phobjikha Valley, which is known as the happiest place in Bhutan. It is also where around three hundred black-neck cranes winter after flying over the Himalayas from the Tibetan Plateau. As a “certified craniac” and long-time volunteer at the Iain Nicholson Audubon Center at Rowe Sanctuary in Nebraska, which annually witnesses the largest concentration of cranes anywhere on the planet, seeing another one of the world’s fifteen cranes species was a special treat.
Each year on November 11, there is a Black-Necked Crane Festival at the Gangteng Monastery in the valley. The festival celebrates the return of the cranes, which are considered by the local Bhutanese to be heavenly creatures. That evening, I shared with our guide, the story of my love for cranes, which I first saw at Rowe Sanctuary with my mom. When I broached the idea of leaving the photo in the Gangteng Monastery, he gently vetoed the idea, indicating it would be inappropriate. Instead, he suggested placing the photo among others on the inside wall of the lodge where we would be staying next.
That evening, I went to bed mulling over my options, which no longer included leaving the photo at the Tiger’s Nest. Outside the temperature dropped below freezing; inside our wooden lodging, I was sweltering from a too-hot fire in the woodstove. The heat, along with my dilemma, left me tossing and turning and thinking most of the night. Nevertheless, by morning, I had an idea and shared it with John. He liked it and so did I.
After leaving our room, we walked outside into the clear and cold morning air, down some stairs and across a wooden walkway to the dining room, where the lights were shining brightly and breakfast would soon be served. The warmth of the dining room was welcoming. A young woman was there to greet us. I communicated with her that I had something I wanted to place inside the metal woodstove…the photo of my mom and me.
When she reached out to take the photo, I shook my head “no,” since it was important that I alone, put the picture into the stove. After she turned the handle that opened the front door, I placed the photo into the fire. Once it ignited, I hurried outside to witness the gray smoke wafting from the chimney into the cold morning air. As it did, I asked aloud for the black-necked cranes to place part of our spirit on their wings and carry it over the Himalayas to the Tibetan Plateau when it was time for them to depart in the spring. The rest of our spirit would remain in the Phobjikha Valley, awaiting their annual return.
Now when I glance up from my computer to the framed photo of my mom and me, I remember the black-necked cranes and her spirit of adventure. It brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart.