In the three years following my mom’s death, I woke up most days and silently dedicated the day to her memory. It was a conscious act of dedicating my life to her because I believed a) she was watching from heaven (I believed this half-way, at least), b) she didn’t get to do all the things she wanted to do so I would do them for her and c) she would appreciate it if I thought of her every day. Maybe she’d pay me a visit.

In high school, I convinced myself over the course of several journal entries that living my life for my mom was dangerous and weird. Dangerous because it meant I wasn’t “living my own life.” Weird because I didn’t know anyone else whose mom had died. But I DID know a lot of kids whose parents seemed to be making their kids live out their vanquished creative dreams. If I didn’t have a mom keeping me in check, why should I police myself as though she were still alive?

As a yoga teacher and student I’ve caught myself on numerous occasions in my adult life paying lip service to, “devote this practice to something bigger than your small self.” I always want to hold back a little bit for “me.” As children, though, it was nothing for us to be devoted to our stuffed animals, our parents and crushes. My first boyfriend must have been devoted to make out with me in braces.

In a recent class, however, we rounded out our two hours on the mat with a devotional practice. “What,” our teacher asked, “was Gandhi’s last word before he died in the temple?” Nobody knew, self included. “Ram,” she said. “Ram,” in Hinduism is one of God’s many names (pronounced with a soft “ah”). ” In Hinduism it is believed that if you are devoted to and speak God’s name in your last breath you will be liberated from the cycle of re-birth,” the teacher said as we began our chant.

We used mandalas or the 12 knuckles of our right hands to chant the name “Ram” 108 times. The room reverberated with the echoing name of “Ram” being chanted, mingling with the sound of cars going through the intersection. The chanting, low and rhythmic, stirred something inside of me and brought me to a place of great ease. I felt centered and still. In Hinduism it is believed that if you are devoted to and speak God’s name in your last breath you will be liberated from the cycle of re-birth.

This winter I finally got up the courage to ask my grandmother what my mom’s final words were. My grandmother was holding her at the time. My grandmother squinted as she looked at me and I watched her page back in her memory to that moment. “Your mom said, ‘Oh my God, oh God,’ and that was the end.”

A redwood may live for hundreds of years, growing many feet a year. A morning glory blooms briefly, but its devotion to bloom and show its colors is unquestionable. It’s just a flower, flowering. It’s not so much a devoting “to” as a devoting “to be.”