Australian Yoga Journal — July 2017

PHOTOS: MEGHAN RABBITT

the last leg of the trek was considerably

easier than the ground we’d covered

the day before, giving my mind the

chance to wander. And there in the

high Himalayas, after sharing the

trail with sadhus and chanting and

meditating in a cave with a baba,

my thoughts returned again to my

Irish-Catholic grandmother.

What would she have thought of

my Indian pilgrimage? Would she

have balked at the Hindu mythology,

or urged me to say a few Hail Marys

at the summit?

And what I most wanted to know:

What invisible stirrings had my

grandmother faced as she walked

barefoot up Croagh Patrick, and were

they similar to my own as I made my

way toward Gomukh?

My grandmother died 1o years ago,

so I’ll never know the answers to my

questions. But I do know that shortly

after she made her own pilgrimage, she

left her family and all that she knew in

her tiny village in Ireland and emigrated

to New York.

At the top of Croagh Patrick, there

is a little white church where pilgrims

say their prayers before heading back

down the mountain. I imagined my

young grandmother walking into that

church and lighting a candle, praying

for strength as she prepared to leave

her homeland and asking for blessings

in the unknown future she’d have in

America.

At Gomukh, there is a small stone

temple nestled among mountain peaks

that seem to protect the big ice cave

from which the river flows. When I got

there, I slipped off my shoes, knelt

before a statue of Lord Shiva, and held

my hands at my heart. Then I walked

over to the bank of Ma Ganga mere

feet from where she starts flowing and

bowed, silently wishing for clarity

and comfort as I moved on from the

heartache and lessons of my past and

toward my own unknown future. The

few people around me seemed to be

just as reflective as I was, basking in the

peaceful, comforting energy that

crystallised—both around and within

us—here at the source.

As I cupped my hands in the icy

river and drank from it, I held the

feelings of loss and hope my

grandmother surely experienced as a

young woman about to leave Ireland,

as well as my own past hurt and

optimism for what’s to come. And then

I opened my palms and let it all go,

watching the clear droplets merge with

the flow. This, I thought, is why people

of all faiths go on pilgrimages, and why

I was on this one now.

These journeys are like life itself,

filled with setbacks and struggles as

well as victories and beauty, just as my

grandmother had told me. And no

matter what you believe in—a whole

posse of Hindu gods like the sadhus and

babas worship, the holy Trinity like my

grandmother did, or no higher being at

all—the journey serves as a reminder

that we’re all on our own path, facing

our fears, feeling our sadness, and

trusting in the unknowable gifts of the

future.

Want to go on a retreat in India or lead one for

your students? Visit learningjourneys.com to

find out how.

At Gomukh, there is a small stone

temple nestled among mountain

peaks that seem to protect the

big ice cave from which the river flows.

When I got there, I knelt before a

statue of Lord Shiva, held my

hands at my heart, and silently

wished for clarity.

The temple at Gomukh

Meditation caves at

the ‘Beatles Ashram’

Ma Ganga flowing

through Rishikesh

Young pilgram at

Gangotri Temple

Collecting water at
Gomukh

Elephant sanctuary in

Dehradun