Good Medicine

It was my dream since I was a girl to have a cat from kittenhood on and Leo was that dream come true. 

When he got sick and we knew he wouldn't get better, I felt desperate. I stayed up, afraid to go to bed, just in case he wouldn't wake up in the morning. I cried and felt so much love in my bones, like they were humming with the pain of being alive and losing. 

Then I told him he could go if it was too hard, but the next day he was still here because he knew I didn't mean it. I told him again, but still wasn't sure. Then I didn't say it because our relationship never needed words so he knew I was okay. I was finally able to take every snuggle and purr as a blessing. I felt thankful every day he decided to stay around.

Once my daughter asked me how I could keep my lovey, Bear-bear in a basket of sentimental things. That's when I realized Leo had become my lovey. He was something soft to hold, which helps me feel things will be okay. Sometimes I'd put my ear on his belly and close my eyes so everything would fade away except his purr. 

Leo died Monday and I barely made it to yoga Thursday. I decided to flow (or practice) in gratitude for him. When I'd feel the strength of my breath, I'd think how strongly I'd loved him. When it felt good, I'd remember how special it felt when he'd let me know he loved me back. When I lay in savasana, I suddenly knew what else he was to me. He was good medicine. 

All of this, my friends, is good medicine. My fatigue. My family's struggles. Our next kitten. Missing Leo. Some medicine tastes good and some tastes terrible, but all of it's healing me.

As I lay with my eyes closed, I saw Leo in a long line of medicine from the Father of lights. I felt held and nursed, because God knows, we all need nursed. I felt trust too. Some of this will hurt, this getting better, but I won't fight her. I'll swallow what life brings and trust that it too, is good medicine.