Sutika: existing in the space between life and death

There is a sanskrit term, sutika, that describes the time when the veils between this and other worlds are thin. Death is a time of sutika, as well as birth. A woman is said to enter sutika when she begins labor, and stays in that state for several weeks up to a year after her baby is born. In this state, she is less affected by the mundane aspects of reality. She has had a glimpse of the mysteries on the other side. 

In nature, fall is the season of sutika. It is in this transitional time when the fields are bare and the trees are shedding their leaves that death can feel the closest. It’s no coincidence that many cultures have celebrations honoring the dead at this time of year (Halloween, Día de los Muertos, Samhain). It is considered a time when we have the possibility to tune into the whispers of our ancestors, and also those souls who have yet to be born. 

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday, but my relationship with this day became more complicated three years ago, when my puppy was hit by a car and died on October 31st. Sophie was the first dog I’d ever owned, and had just had her first birthday. She was a goldendoodle, a teddy bear of a dog who looked too cute to be real but had a seriously strong will and rebellious spirit. An accident led to her escaping that afternoon and she was doing what she loved most, running as fast as the wind, when she was hit by a car in our neighborhood. 

I can honestly say that I have never felt such deep grief as what opened in me in the moment that I got this news. My husband called me at work. I went to the parking lot out in the back of the office and slid down to the pavement, wailing. I had seen it in movies a hundred times, but never understood the way that grief makes you collapse, buckling to the ground wherever you happen to be standing. It was all the more surreal because it was Halloween, and I was wearing a Winnie-The-Pooh onesie. A coworker I barely knew came outside dressed in a giant hot-dog costume, to smoke a cigarette. He saw me sitting on the ground crying. I told him what had happened and he gave me a hug. The boundaries that usually keep me from sobbing in front of strangers meant nothing in that moment. Sutika. 

This story gets even stranger when I tell you that four years before that day, on Halloween, my mom’s first and only dog also escaped, was hit by a car, and died. There was this extra layer of pain when I called my mom to tell her what had happened to Sophie. She literally couldn’t believe it. I think we both felt this shock that it could have happened again, even though they were totally different situations. We should have learned, we should have remembered that something horrible happened on this day, she should have called to remind me to keep the dog inside, I should have remembered… These were the thoughts going through both of our minds, as if there was any way to unwind the events that had led to her death. What was the meaning behind this tragic coincidence? You could call it a freak accident, which it was. You could say that the veil between worlds was thin on this day, and the dogs ran through, showing us just how tenuous that barrier is. Maybe there is truth to that also. 

I still can’t understand Sophie’s death or tie it up with a ribbon of meaning. It seems like a horrible mistake, a fissure in my reality. But then again, senseless death is a part of so many life stories. If she taught me anything… Well, first of all she taught me about love. I have never opened my heart to a creature in such a way, and I’m honestly still not sure that I ever will again. She taught me about the depths of loss and grief, and how close that chasm is to the surface of everyday life, how it can rip everything wide open. And I believe she taught me something about death, in the way she ran to meet hers so enthusiastically, innocent and unassuming. 

Both of my grandfathers died in the fall, over ten years apart. I remember east coast autumn funerals, wind blowing brown leaves over green grass and brilliant afternoon sun shining through yellow trees on the hill where we buried my grandfather. I remember the feeling of seeing all my family members weeping. Thinking, I’ve known these people my whole life but never seen some of them really cry before. 

This fall my last remaining grandparent, my Grammy, sits in a nursing home in Vermont, on the opposite side of the country from me, apparently waiting to die. She stopped eating recently, and though now she’s started again, the doctors are saying she will probably pass in the next several months, if not sooner. My mom is with her, and is able to visit her in the nursing home in a secluded room with a plastic sheet between the two of them. She has to wear a mask, but is allowed to reach her hand through the plastic to hold her mother’s hand. Grammy has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t speak much, but my mom said on her last visit my Grammy knew her, and talked to her. 

I feel like my Grammy has been existing in this sutika state for quite awhile, one foot in this world but one in another. In a way, it seems to make the transition easier, like I’ve been watching her go for years. The woman I talked with and laughed with and shared music and art and writing with is no longer the same… somehow I’ve been able to accept that. But how will it feel different when she is actually gone? I don’t know. I remember the finality of Sophie’s death and how much it terrified me. Sometimes I feel crazy for going about my life in Los Angeles while my last grandparent may be living her last days. Should I be doing everything I can to try to get across the country in the middle of a pandemic and an intense election and see her? To hold her hand through a plastic sheet or hold up a sign through a window, and wonder if she knows who I am? 

I think about all the people who are struggling with decisions like this right now. Decisions far harder than mine. I think of all the people who have died alone in hospitals, whose families weren’t allowed to be with them, who couldn’t practice their traditions or ways of honoring death. I think also about the new babies that have been born without their grandparents allowed in the delivery room, grandparents who haven’t met their grandchildren and don’t know when it will be safe for them to do so. I think about my sweet cousin who had her baby in January who I still haven’t gotten to meet and don’t know when I will. 

It seems to me that this whole year has a quality of sutika. The way that daily life has become surreal, the ways we’ve had to adjust, to prioritize different things, to face death in new ways. I don’t think we’re at the end of it and I don’t have a great seed of wisdom to offer here. The coronavirus is spiking again and I spent this morning listening to a report on how gun sales are at an all time and people on both sides of the political spectrum are preparing for violence from the other side. My husband is stockpiling toilet paper and frozen pizzas again, and bought us a power generator. 

What I know is that we’re heading into the darkest time of the year, the long nights of winter, and after a year of being forced to “turn inward,” “be still,” “spend time alone,” it seems we are being asked to do some more of that. There’s a part of me that wants to be wild, make sudden moves or big decisions, defy everything about this stupid year; but I am trusting the voice that says, be still and wait a little longer. I’m buckling in for the winter and considering what I want to create on the other side of this long night. 

The fall of any year is a time when I think about how to keep my own light strong through the darker months. In the midst of everything that’s going on this particular fall, it feels especially pertinent. I’m not going to turn this into a blog about ten ways to calm vata, but I will say that I am leaning into all the practices that I know keep my body and mind nourished. Whatever remedies you have in your bag, use them. 

I think that hope is a potent remedy for fear, and faith is great if you can come by it. Personally, I haven’t always been someone with a particularly strong faith; but my Grammy always has been. When I take the time to meditate and ask to connect with her, that is what I feel. An unshakeable love and faith fills the room and envelops me. It hums through her and through my mother and through me. Will this feeling shift when she finally crosses over from this life? Will I be overwhelmed by the void of her loss? Will I regret not taking the chance to see her when I still could? Or will I feel her love and wisdom even more closely, no longer bound by the confines of her deteriorating body and mind? I don’t know, but I am staying open to the mystery. 

This Halloween, I’ll kiss the two sweet dogs we now have, and remind my husband to keep an extra close eye on them all day. After dark, I’ll go out in the garden where we buried Sophie under a huge eucalyptus tree. I’ll light a candle and put out some water as an offering. I’ll tell her I’m sorry and that I love her, like I do every year. I’ll be still, and listen for any whispers from the other side.