The Plants are Alive Again

by Josh Love

In 2016, I became a full-time caretaker for my father. He had Parkinson's, the kind that comes with dementia, and I had just moved into his apartment in the city to look after him. I knew it would be a hard job, but I had no idea just how hard. A couple of times, he wandered out of the apartment, and I'd have to call the police and report him missing. Most days I was running on empty.

One day, my friend Malorie invited me over to her apartment to do an online Kundalini class—my first one ever. And when the teacher chanted the Adi Mantra that opens every class, I started laughing hysterically. It was almost like my soul remembered those sounds from somewhere. I hadn't laughed like that in a long time. Eventually I pulled it together and did the class, and afterward I felt so high, so amazing, that I turned to my friend and said: I want to do this again.

As my father’s condition declined, we brought in a home health aide to help for a few hours here and there. And in that little window of free time, I'd go to class—five, six, seven times a week. Doubles when I could. Every class filled my tank back up and allowed me to be a better caretaker when I got home. I suddenly had more patience with my dad, more composure when he was stubborn or pushing my buttons, more compassion for what he was going through. I still lost it at times, but it took me a lot longer to get there.

I was doing so much yoga that people at the studio kept telling me to do the teacher training. I didn't want to be a teacher, but I loved the practice and wanted to go deeper, so I signed up.

A week before my teacher training was supposed to start, my father died. Even though I knew it was coming, it still hurt more than I ever imagined. I went into a shell. Friends and family reached out, and I said no to almost all of it. But I had already paid for teacher training and, at the very least, I would commit myself to that.

I've come to see the timing as a blessing. I was forced out of the house, forced to practice, forced to be around people. And that very first week, we learned Akal—the mantra whose name means "undying," chanted for a soul that has left its body. Even though I hadn't told anyone about my dad, I sat there chanting it for him and bawling my eyes out. At that moment, I felt more connected to him than I had since he passed.

Fast-forward to today. I still live in his apartment, and it still has many of his special touches: a loft bed, exposed brick before exposed brick was everywhere, a Buddha he brought back from Tibet on a little altar. But the best thing about the place is the south-facing windows that flood it with light. My dad filled that light with so many plants that his friends called the apartment the hippie tree house. As he got older and sicker, the plants died off one by one, and the tree house slowly went bare. So, after he passed, I made a decision to get more plants in there. I started bringing them back home until the window sills were full again. These days I'm a proud plant dad. The tree house is green again.

And this month marks another full cycle moment. I'm co-teaching a Kundalini workshop with Malorie, the same friend who took me to my first Kundalini class. It's a three-hour afternoon workshop about the 11 Moon Centers, the Kundalini map of the emotional and energetic cycles women move through every two and a half days. We'll practice Kundalini, then Malorie will explain the moon centers, how you can unlock your inner map, and lead a guided journaling meditation. I will close it all with a 30-minute gong sound bath.

Here’s the thing I most want to say about this practice: Life hands everyone all kinds of transitions. A parent declines, a person dies, an apartment changes hands, a student becomes a teacher. Without a spiritual practice, those events can feel random and abrupt. But Kundalini yoga has kept me aware enough to see the thread running through all those ups and downs.

These days, I know I'm on the right path. I just keep showing up, keep doing the work, and let the universe provide the rest.