The Long Way Home

I stood transfixed at the kitchen table, trying to grasp the enormity of the decision.

Outside, a leaf from the black ash tree fell quietly on the freshly mowed lawn, the first to turn. The blue jays’ call got louder as I tried to concentrate, seeking answers to many unresolved questions.

I could feel a shift on the horizon—a change, perhaps even a series of them, guiding us towards something new.

Is this what life transitions are about?

Aligning our actions with a sense of purpose?

In my heart, I knew the universe always communicates with us through subtle signs and messages. The only way to listen is to pause the busyness around us and bring deep awareness to the present moment.

The pandemic had far-reaching effects on the lives of our parents, impacting them in ways we hadn’t fully anticipated. The isolation they experienced suddenly deprived them of the social connections that had once been a vital source of comfort and joy, leaving them bereft of their usual support system. There was no denying the devastating impact this had on them—the ageing beyond years, and a noticeable decline in health. This was particularly evident on our last trip to India.

During our evening conversations over chai, my husband and I often imagined the next phase of our lives. Our daughter had flown the nest; she was now a sophomore in an out-of-state college, thriving in her new community. We had become empty nesters, frequently contemplating embracing a slower, simpler way of living.

We were moving to India, which was a big transition in itself.

We were also assuming the role of caregivers, preparing to provide strength and comfort to our ageing parents. This transition signalled the beginning of a new chapter of responsibility, reflection and a conscious pursuit of a slower, more meaningful life.

It was late summer, and our backyard was in full bloom. The goldenrods stood tall, the hydrangeas we had planted years ago had grown into towering trees, and the clematis wound gracefully around our fence, creating a picturesque sight. The red hibiscus, resilient and unwavering, had endured three harsh Minnesotan winters, nestled close to the eastern window indoors. It was hard to fathom that these plants we had lovingly nurtured would soon have to be left behind.

For many years, we had been patrons and collectors of Indian art and artists. Having authored a decor blog with a deep passion for interior styling, each home we moved to was carefully curated with beautiful pieces of art, furniture, vintage artefacts from our travels, commissioned paintings, and books that had deeply influenced and shaped our thinking.

As a chai lover and potter, I had gathered handmade pottery from potters I admired, estate sales, and antique stores. These possessions were not just objects; they held stories and memories. But faced with the imminent necessity of downsizing, we had to divide them into two categories: things to keep and things to release. Simple. Yet, not easy.

I typically find the process of decluttering, organizing, and donating to be rejuvenating. It allows me to eliminate excess and make room for new possibilities—new seasons.

However, this time was different. The urgency of our move made the transition difficult. We had to pack up our precious belongings, store them away, and move out of our home of ten years. The deadline was tight. We had one month to stage the house and put it up for sale while we relocated to an Airbnb.

I still remember the bouquet of smells that tickled my nostrils as I emptied half-used packets of chaat masala, sambar powder, everything but the bagel seasoning, and pumpkin spice mix into compostable bags, clearing out the cupboards in the kitchen.

This wasn’t the way we had imagined navigating such a major change. The whirlwind of decisions and abruptness of the move made it feel more like we were permanently uprooting our lives than replanting them. Yet in this process of letting go, the words of one of my spiritual inspirations, Eckhart Tolle, held me steady: “Sometimes letting things go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on.”

One chilly, windswept evening, we stood on our back deck, preparing to clear away the plants that had been such an integral part of our lives. The plants had flourished here for years. Some had been with us since the early days of our home. Among them was my treasured collection of over fifty succulents, each a little story.

Our kind neighbours offered to take most of them. Passing my beloved plants across the fence, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the kindness that surrounded us in such a tender moment of transition.

It was my birthday. We were up early to beat the traffic. I hadn’t slept much the night before. The pet relocation company was based in Chicago. We rented a pick-up truck—a serious upgrade from our SUVs—with Cocoa tucked in his travel crate behind our seats, and the six suitcases: the only belongings we were taking with us. We bid farewell to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis-Saint Paul, Minnesota, our home for over a decade and headed to Chicago via I-94E.
It aches so much to let go of a place that was once home.

My mind drifted as the GPS confidently took over, giving directions to our next destination.

These possessions gathered over the years were never just beautiful objects; they were repositories of our lives. The paintings on the walls, the worn-out chairs that cradled us for hours, the home that sheltered us through Minnesotan blizzards and hailstorms — all of them hold stories. They have experienced birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, and they have absorbed the sounds of laughter, animated barks, moments of silence, arguments, and reconciliations. Did we fear that without these possessions, the life we once lived would slip away unnoticed, as if it never existed?

As I leaned in, I realized that the experiences, emotions, and people we shared those moments with truly make them meaningful, and that can never be lost. We carry those moments in our hearts.

The thought of leaving our beagle in a Chicago neighbourhood filled with train tracks and old warehouses filled me with an increasing sense of dread. The address provided by the pet relocation company led us to a reputable dog boarding facility with warm, friendly staff, but leaving our four-legged baby behind with nothing but a ziplock bag of kibbles and his travel papers attached to the crate was far from what I had imagined.

We were scheduled to fly out earlier to welcome him in Chennai. The high-pitched, heartbreaking howl he let out as my husband went inside to drop off his crate is a moment this beagle mom will never forget.

The Uber arrived quickly. My husband and I sat in complete silence, staring at the fast-moving fall landscape, each lost in our thoughts about the future. We returned to the hotel to pack for our first flight out to India the next morning.

We landed in Chennai along with the Northeast Monsoons, devoid of our luggage, which was lost in transit. After the necessary paperwork, we stood at the airport arrival with our backpacks.

The driver of the Innova, who was booked to haul our six large suitcases, looked rather puzzled, wondering where the rest of our luggage was.

Weeks before our flight to India, we had learned that the apartment complex where my parents-in-law lived maintained a strict “no pets allowed” policy.

So, we frantically searched for a pet-friendly Airbnb and finally found a picturesque, pet-friendly resort near our parents' place.

The night Cocoa was scheduled to arrive, the rain fell steadily in a soothing patter against the roof. I waited in a beautifully designed traditional cottage, its sloping roof adding charm to the space, while frangipani and coconut trees framed the view, creating a lush, tropical backdrop. As I sat there, reflecting on how our little Beagle had become quite the traveller. It was a surreal moment recollecting his journey, not just in miles but in the changes we had all embraced as a family.

Suddenly, I heard the familiar tinkling of collar tags, and in the blink of an eye, there he was. Cocoa came charging into the room, like a lightning bolt, dragging my husband behind him. He was drenched, his fur soaked from the rain, but his energy and love were abundant. With every leap and wag of his tail, he drenched us in the joy of his presence. At that moment, all the waiting and uncertainties melted away.

Cocoa was here, safe and sound, and nothing else mattered.

“In between where you are and where you want to be, there is endless, boundless peace.

There is an opportunity to be still, as you find yourself in the gap between the past and the future, knowing that this is the space where you were called to come alive.

And it’s okay if you feel uncertain here. You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You are free to take it moment by moment, and see the wholeness of it all: some things will be difficult. Some things will be easier. Some things will make sense, while others leave you with questions. But altogether, these mountains and valleys create a landscape, where somehow, through it all, everything finds its place.”

These words from Morgan Harper Nichols provided comfort during our transition, the space between what was and what is yet to come.

The curtains swayed lazily in the sea breeze, and sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling our balcony.

Our new home finally felt like a manifested reality. Decorated with plants, books, and seashells, it had soft vanilla walls, a calming canvas for a piece of art or two. Wicker and wood—the texture of warmth and nostalgia lingered in the rooms. Each object is chosen with intention.

The space felt familiar, reflecting my unique decor style, but the colour palette was completely new.

I had once been a maximalist, but in this new chapter, I was evolving into someone who desired simplicity. The rooms were kept functional, and we acquired only what we needed, often borrowing pieces from friends and family.

Reusing and reducing became the guiding principles in our home and our approach to life in this new city.

Slow living was the lifestyle choice I had wanted to imbibe in this new chapter of my life.

And yet, it felt like a challenge.

I had become so accustomed to the pace of productivity, to the constant need to check things off my list before allowing myself to rest. My conditioned mind raced with thoughts of everything I should be doing. Organizing, settling in, caregiving, and starting my pottery business. It was hard to silence that inner voice that demanded movement, that equated my worth with doing rather than being.

As time went by, I started to appreciate the beauty of what we had created. The life we had always dreamed of was right in front of us, inviting us to pause, reflect, and gracefully step into it.

I needed to let go of the guilt that came with sitting still, to trust that in this new space and city, I could find a balance between the things I loved: productivity and rest, doing and being.

Living close to the sea, the simplicity of our home, long-distance parenting, caring for our elders and Cocoa were reminders that life could be rich without being rushed.

Slowing down and being mindful takes practice. A lot of practice.

Embracing my new life fully, I inhaled deeply and realized I was already on my way.

The “No pets allowed” policy had irked me during our house hunt.

Curious about this deep-seated aversion to pets that seemed to dictate these policies, I dug deeper and soon discovered that, in many cases, it wasn’t a matter of dislike for animals themselves but rather the irresponsible behaviour of some pet owners. Many pet owners fail to clean up after their pets, leaving messes that tarnish the cleanliness of the apartment complexes, creating negative experiences for everyone else living in the community.

As we walked our Beagle around the neighbourhood, we noticed the lack of bins for pet waste disposal. Many pet owners and dog walkers did not clean up after their pets, resulting in dirty streets and unhygienic conditions.

After speaking with other pet owners in the community, we decided to mobilize resources to create posters that educate people and provide bins for pet waste on the streets.

Contributing to the betterment of the community and addressing a shared cause provided a deep sense of purpose. It helped us build connections and social bonds and created a network of belonging that helped us feel more at home in our new environment.

Daily morning walks to the beach have become a way to connect with local pet parents—of Rowdy, Tommy, and Bhairav.

Along the way, I often offer poop bags to those who may have forgotten, while also keeping an eye on the well-being of our neighbourhood dogs—ensuring they’re vaccinated and neutered. These “streeties”, as they are known, each with their distinctive personality and bark, have warmly welcomed us with wagging tails into their and our new home.

Through the demands of daily life, distractions from the world around us, and social obligations, slowing down has been the only way to harness “the now.”

One of the most cherished moments I savour is my daily ritual with Amma. Every afternoon at four, we sit together, sharing two cups of chai and Marie biscuits. These quiet moments when Amma recollects stories from her past— memories that have shaped her, stories that make her eyes sparkle and sometimes brim with tears—bear witness to our family history.

This daily practice of pausing has become my way of navigating life’s transitions and challenges with grace. It anchors me to the present and allows me to experience the fullness of each moment.

The universe continues to send us subtle messages. Lately, it’s been about letting go—letting go of ways we thought our lives would unfold and embracing the destination that the waves have carried us towards as we find the place of calm, fulfillment, and deep personal transformations.