Holding Tight the Laces

Let it Go.

There are a hundred ways to say it. A hundred things we would be better off for letting go of.  Old resentments, misguided worry, a weary worn out grudge, the past, unrealistic expectations, that which we cannot control, a broken heart,  a million what-ifs and of course all the coulda-shoulda-wouldas.

Let it go.

We have all heard it, we have all heard ourselves say it to someone else in compassion or perhaps even exasperation, and maybe we have muttered it under our breath for our own benefit when we have worn ourselves out worrying or troubling or obsessing about something, or someone, and finally, at last know there is nothing else we can do.

Let it go.

A simple little phrase. If only it were that simple.

It seems to me that this this is one of those lessons we have to learn over and over. And then, perhaps, again.  Turns out, that along with our hearts, our brains are not programmed for change or loss. I learned this from a new perspective recently while reading a terrific article about dealing with change.  It hit home when I read that…

When we run into a roadblock, suddenly information we trusted has broken down. Where does the other road lead? How long will it take? Is it dangerous? What we don’t know tends to scare us, and change creates a lot of things we don’t know. As a result, we tend to act pretty irrationally to try and prevent change, often without realizing it, and make our lives unnecessarily problematic.  {via Lifehacker}

Letting go is saying yes to loss. Choosing to say goodbye to something.  Even the things in our lives that take up unnecessary space, cause pain, or rob us of joy somehow settle in as something familiar and letting  go creates an unexpected emptiness.  Letting go is an active invitation of the unfamiliar, and somehow, we are strange creatures who cling to what is familiar, sometimes just what takes up space, even when it doesn’t always feel good.

As an eighth grader, I had begged my my parents for new roller skates for my 14th birthday. Begged and bargained. And finally, they gave in and agreed that would be my gift that year. I got to pick them out – white leather boot, blue wheels and stopper, and even a bright blue pom-pom on the toe.  While the surprise element was zero, the anticipation factor was high; I loved knowing that by a certain date, those skates would be mine, all mine.  My birthday finally rolled around and the skates were safely in my possession; I am sure I skated around the block, imagining my first chance to loop the rink with my girlfriends and with an eye on that cute boy from across town. That night, some thirty plus years ago, as I fell asleep, proud owner of the new skates, I held the laces of those new skates tightly, my hand hanging over the edge of my bed, unable to let go. I wanted to be sure that when I woke up, those skates would still be there. I didn’t trust that what I had wanted so badly, and had finally received, would not in fact somehow slip away.

The skates were something I could easily – and legitimately grasp, hold on to, and make sure they did not roll away from me.

But what about when it’s more complicated than roller skates? When it is something that stirs you?  What if it is something, that despite the fact that the earth is not likely to tip on a slant and cause things to roll away, is something you want to hold close?

We know that if we can let something go, and if it remains with us, or returns, that we should be able to trust that it is meant to be part of us, that there is something truly organic at play.  When we successfully stuff a square into a circle, it may seem for the moment to feel good that we conquered, that we won, that we got what we wanted. But in the long run, it seems safe to say, that time will only reveal to us that it never really fit in the first place.

What’s hard is not knowing, and yet allowing ourselves to truly step back and let the universe do it’s work.  Let the surface slant and see what rolls.  What I am still struggling with, I will be honest, is finding that balance. The balance between gently holding that which we care about, and still allowing time and space to work its magic.  Knowing when it’s time to put my hands up in acquiescence; understanding that I have done all that I should, or could. Even if  just temporarily. Understanding the balance between coincidence and intent, the fine line between patient and passive,  the delicate dance of safe and vulnerable.

I have been pondering this notion for days, trying to work out a solution to a dilemma and a way of being during an ambiguous time.  I am wrestling with big change that requires grieving something familiar that cannot continue.  We came close to losing my 92 year old father last week and my brother and I both felt compelled to let him go, and to let him know he was free to pass from one world to the next if he is tired.  An important relationship requires that I let go for awhile to allow it’s potential to emerge on it’s own. In the time of my pondering, and beating my chest over all this, I’ve gotten a text from a friend who unknowingly suggested I give a listen to a song by Frou Frou called Let Go.   Mimi’s post, graciously extending her angel wings over me, talked about letting go and the persistence of hope, and a very wise person I know [ok, my sister!]  re-framed my question asking me if I can let it be, instead of feeling that I have to let it go.  This letting go, this saying yes to loss, at any level; is excruciating in some moments. But sometimes, to let go is not so simple, but simply, the only way.  And when we surrender ourselves to what is to be, we somehow allow for just that. What is to be.

So, where is the line? The line between grasping too tightly and letting go?  Between letting go and letting it be?  What about when letting go feels like giving up?  Because somehow, I still feel like that 14yr old who wants to hold tight to the laces of my skates as I fall asleep.