Little Red Clay Jar by Sica Schmitz
Written by Sica Schmitz
Amma said, "Don't confuse me with this 5 foot body."
She is a petit but powerful woman, and under any other circumstances being at this guru’s ashram in India would have been my dream trip. Actually, many people’s dream trip, as a friend shared with me, expressing how jealous she was.
I had cringed.
I would have much rather had my baby than a one way ticket to India, than this suddenly vastly open, endlessly empty schedule of silent nights and vacant arms, created 6 weeks earlier when my son JoJo, my only child, had been unexpectedly stillborn at 37 weeks.
His death had destroyed me, everything about me, including my spirituality. I had quickly gone from a relationship with God that was built on belief and trust to one that was now built on rage and fury. But, I had sensed, somehow, that I wouldn’t survive both the loss of my baby and of my faith, and since only one was salvageable I decided to focus on that, to try to hold onto something, anything, even if not the preferred thing.
So in the midst of my postpartum and postmortem pain I had started this new journey, of every sense, almost 30 hours of planes and taxis to a country I had never before been. It hurt, but as my mom had reminded me, after two days of laboring my dead child into this world, this was not the hardest 30 hours I’d been through lately, nor the hardest I would have ahead.
I had brought JoJo’s ashes with me, planning to scatter him in the Arabian Sea, but that first week at Amma’s ashram I wasn't ready to let him go. Actually, I'm still not, but I'm working very hard not to confuse him with his perfect little 19 inch body, or the dust that it is now.
JoJo’s body may have changed form but his soul had not. He remained for me even in his death a source of peace, love, and song, just as he had been in his life. In fact his final hours were spent with music, a weekly gathering of unique chants and lullabies that a friend had collected from around the world. We would sing them to our babies and each time he would dance around; he absolutely loved it.
And I loved him, and this was part of how I showed him that.
And now here I was once again singing to him. His ashes sat in a tiny red clay jar next to Amma as thousands of us gathered together in a giant airy room, chanting bhajans - devotional songs. JoJo would have danced around; he would have absolutely loved it.
And I still loved him, and this was part of how I showed him that.
Afterwards Amma kissed his jar, hugged me as I cried, and covered me in flower petals. We walked to the beach as the swamis - the holy men - prayed in Sanskrit. I prayed in Lady Gaga, the only thing I still believed in, a line from one of JoJo's favorite songs: "The part of me that's you will never die."
I walked to the water and held the small clay jar over my head, pausing. One of the swamis told me it was ok to let it go. I disagreed and wanted to hold onto it forever but instead I whispered, "I love you" and threw it into the crashing waves.
I was trying super hard not to confuse him with that little red clay jar, or the shattered pieces in the ocean that it is now.
The night beforehand I had dreamt that I was trying to find something to wear and I didn't like any of my options. Then I noticed a jewelry box and I instantly knew it was a gift from JoJo. I opened it and saw inside a set of brand new eyes. I understood that I was supposed to wear them now. I took them out of the box and lifted them towards my face thinking, "oh this is going to hurt." It did hurt, seeing the world through this new lens, where everything is somehow both brighter and darker, both more beautiful and more terrible than I could have ever imagined.
After JoJo’s ceremony the swamis told me to go back to my room and bathe and set everything I had worn into water and then put on fresh clothes.
I didn’t want to. I wanted to hold onto the bhajans, the prayers, to never again wash the hands that had held that little red clay jar, or the baby that was now in it. But I'm trying to not be confused with what is permanent and what is not and so instead I rinsed it all away and put on a new dress and this new set of eyes I’d been given.
And it does hurt. Everything remains so much brighter, so much darker, so much more beautiful and more terrible than I could have ever imagined.
But I still love him, and seeing the world with the eyes he gave me, learning the song of his silence he gave me, is part of how I show him that.
