I dreamt that Guruji came to YogaWorks, alive and well (tall, with long hair and a lithe body) and sat with my mother (also alive and well, if quiet) and me on a couch. He noted our resemblance; my mother just smiled. She was not in the rest of the dream. Guruji, full of energy, demonstrated yoga poses I’d never seen before, and then we went outside to wait for a bus and he instructed me to lead him through part of Intermediate series. I mixed up the vinyasa, and he laughed, kindly.
After my mother died I kept hoping that I would see her in dreams. I wanted her to tell me she was okay. I wanted her to give me advice that she never got to give in life, and to tell me she would always be looking out for me. But dreams are never this neat. Her appearances in my dreams are occasional and brief, and I struggle after waking to remember what, if anything, she said. And that fact has gone from being frustrating and sad to comforting, in a way; maybe she doesn’t think anything was left unsaid. Maybe she thinks I’m doing alright.