Pushkin and Rothko

Since the creation of LettersToPushkin.com, I have been so moved by all the letters and pictures people are posting as they are coping with the loss of a loved one.  Also, on the Facebook page for Letters To Pushkin, another support network is blossoming – and I want to thank everyone for the comments they’ve been leaving there. It is because of this outpouring of honesty and compassion that I decided to share with you a recent personal reflection.  A warmest thank you to everyone who has been supportive of the site and is helping to spread the word.

26 June 2010

For my first free day in DC since moving into the apartment, I had plans to go to The Phillips Collection early in the afternoon. It’s one of my favorite museums in the world, and it’s now just a few blocks from my home away from home for the next six weeks. After the museum, the day’s agenda included a Bikram Yoga class, followed by dinner in Georgetown. It was the perfect plan. However, my morning got off to a bit of a shaky start as I allowed myself to become distracted. You see, although I’m not a “morning person,” my morning meditation has become one of the most important parts of my day. And, while I’m starting to feel like I’m getting my groove back after having had a few days to settle in, my routine in my new environment is more susceptible than it normally would be to circumstances. I was already a block from my apartment when I realized I’d skipped out before giving myself the time I usually take each morning to set myself apart from whatever is happening, all the details of life that could in an instant fall away.

As a practice, I begin the day by getting still and clearing my mind (much easier to do at the very beginning of the day before the emails, the phone calls, or work gets my mind racing and my body moving). At home in Tucson, Galileo and Otis are creatures of habit as well: “Is it time to meditate boys?” They immediately come in from the yard, jump down from the sofa, or come running from wherever they are in the house, and trot into the room where we meditate each day. I begin by reading a daily reflection from Sogyal Rinpoche’s Glimpse After Glimpse, which by now I have read a few times over. I follow the reflection with a prayer of gratitude, for all the blessings in my life. I say prayers for my loved ones, family, and friends. I also pray for myself — usually for clarity, focus, and to finish the day a little bit better a person than when I started. I say a prayer for Otis and Galileo, that they are protected from harm and suffering, and I say a prayer for Pushkin, the spirit that we call Pushkin: that he remembers he has a family that loves him very much. That, wherever he is, he feels safe and knows he’s loved.

After the prayers, I try to get very quiet and I begin to breathe with Pushkin. During one of his last days with us, he held his beagle nose right under mine and insisted we breathe together. After a few breaths, I started to move my head away but he nudged me back. Full breaths together for several minutes. The lesson I took from that has become a mantra of sorts for me: in our breath, we are one. Although we are separated now, we could never be separate. Pushkin is still with me all the time. And it’s more than just a mind game to me. It’s been a year and a half since the beagle body gave out on him, but that only means he isn’t restricted anymore by physicality. Now, his spirit flies. And with my feet planted firmly on the ground, I’m able to take Pushkin places now that he could never have seen before. Last summer I took Pushkin to his first Yankee game — at the new Yankee stadium, which was also a first for me. Pushkin came skiing with us last January in Park City, and he has sat on my lap for an Alvin Ailey performance and also at an Etta James concert. He certainly has been to many law-school classes with me by now… I consider us a dynamic duo in the animal law efforts. He has been with me on the bench in Riverside Park that now has his name on it, and together we’ve wandered into the old dog run at 105th Street. Sometimes, I imagine his little beagle-self walking beside me when I’m walking, as I have while I’ve been walking around Washington DC this week. There was a time when this city was my home. Now, I invite Pushkin to walk around with me so that I can show him some of the places his mama used to know before I knew him. Now, I’ve shown him the Georgetown campus, the places I used to sit and read, my favorite spots in the old neighborhood.

So when I arrived at The Phillips Collection today, I was already looking forward to showing Pushkin some of my favorite pieces. But, having realized my omission in the morning routine, I also wanted to find a quiet spot where I could be still and meditate. Soon enough, I came to the Rothko room. It’s a small rectangular room tucked away on the second floor of what was once Duncan Phillips residence. On each wall, one of Rothko’s large canvasses. I sat on the bench in the center of the room and let my eyes settle on the panel right in front of me, which consisted mostly of blues and violets. I began my prayers, trying to quiet my mind, trying to immerse myself in the tranquility of the painting. Rothko paintings, at least for me, take some time to settle into. It takes a while to see how the shades of colors emerge, then merge with each other, how there is movement in a painting that at first glance can look static. This painting: one color in the background, and a large block of another color taking over about two-thirds of the space. When it comes to Rothko’s work, if you don’t sit with it, you miss what’s there. A simple brush stroke across the canvas suddenly seems to float, set itself apart from the other colors. Suddenly there are pink tones in the violet that you hadn’t noticed at first. The boundaries of the colors begin to blur until the painting has an almost hypnotic effect. It was here that I said my prayers, swimming in a sea of more shades of blue and purple than you can imagine.

For my morning conversation with Pushkin I turned to the panel on my left, and I repositioned myself at the far end of the bench. This panel was quite a contrast to the previous one: so much more light — rather than violets and blues, there were yellows and reds to mesmerize me. Like a sunrise. I sat at the edge and began talking to Pushkin. This was his first Rothko painting.

At first, I imagined him sitting there with me, or maybe watching from above. But then I had, in the quiet moment, an incredible thought: I asked Pushkin to use my eyes, to see the painting through my eyes, so he could understand how beautiful this painting was. The background of this canvas was painted red, which then became orange, then deep blood red at the edges; a rectangle of gold went from near the top edge of the painting, down two thirds of the canvas; there was a wave of pink maybe fuchsia at the bottom of the yellow square; and I began to see more gray in the gold. The miracle was that — in that instant — I felt like I was seeing the painting myself for the very first time. My eyes had tears in them. I was completely overwhelmed by the beauty of what I was looking at, and at the same time thinking about my life and everything that had happened to get me right there, in that room, at that moment. It was one of the most intimate moments of my life. In our breath, we are one.

I stayed a long time in the Rothko room today. I spent some time sitting with the other two large canvases in the room as well, before moving onto the next room. Eventually I got up and, for the next few hours, I witnessed beauty in so many forms. The paintings were magical; the afternoon was magical.

It occurred to me that grief itself is not unlike a Rothko. As you sit with it, you will notice how it changes. It can be confusing and haunting and beautiful all at the same time — and shows you things that you never would have noticed had you not taken the time to get still, get quiet, and get past the surface. But you have to sit with it, breathe with it. And then the grief sits with you. The grief stays with you, just like the image of that Rothko will now forever be imprinted in my mind. But eventually I did get up off the bench, and I did venture into other rooms. Grief stays with us, but we also need to keep going. It is possible to again experience beauty, to experience joy. I showed Pushkin so many marvelous paintings today, and then I showed him Georgetown, and I sang to him in the chapel (we were all alone), and I finished our wonderful day together by wishing him sweet dreams.