On Letting Go

How often have I heard the imperative to let go, and resisted. Please don't tell me to step back, distance myself, or let something go. I need it. I had it! (Or thought I did.) I liked it. I may even have loved it. Tell me instead to hold on as tightly as I can. That, I know I can do. I have been doing it since the day I was born.

It is human nature to cling. Clinging is survival. One of the first things my newborn did was clench my finger. He had trouble nursing due to fatigue accompanying severe jaundice. He was a premie and could barely stay awake when it was time to eat. I was horrified when the doctor told me that I had to put a cold washcloth on his small cheeks and roll him side to side with a blanket to rouse him for feeding. But one thing my son could do, even when drowsy: squeeze my smallest finger with all the might of his tiny fist.

It is my nature to hold on to what I can. It's instinctive, a reliable reflex over time. When in doubt, hold on. It works for roller coasters and bumpy bus rides. It works for hats in all but the worst of winds. It works for clip-on earrings, even if they hold too tightly and leave dents. Try not holding on to tax records, old student papers. The year you pitch them is the year you are audited or have a grade contested.

Like many people, I don't like to surrender old clothes that no longer quite fit (maybe they will again), friends I have cared about (even when they forget me), cherished memories (though sometimes I can't conjure up the words to write about them). I would rather accumulate, add on. I'm happy in libraries, museums, back rooms with boxes and papers. I type this in a room that is more like a nest, stuffed with cherished manuscripts in layers, cluttered and colorful bookshelves, and news clippings in every shade of buff and yellow, all around. Why does it look like this? It's so hard to let things go.

As far as what you can't see--old hurts, for example--I am sometimes not even aware that I am still carrying them. I have absorbed spiritual teachings from several traditions, including Buddhism and the Unity movement, that suggest one release what has caused pain. Heal fast, with grace and help. Let go of grudges and worries, lest there be no space for openhearted love and confidence. Don't play the old, victim tapes. I try. I move ahead. I release a lot of people, and their brusqueness, their ignorance, even their violence and hate. But every so often, I surprise myself by discovering that somewhere, deep in my heart, is some pain I've locked away. I thought I had given up the struggles, the ache...but under several layers of letting-go efforts, the bruise is there. Intact.

But I had an epiphany the other day, a beautiful fall day. I was standing by a window that let in dazzling colors, especially orange and red. I moved aside sheer curtains to better see how the sun and leaves worked together to create that incredible display. I felt literally bathed in warm light.

Through the window, the fall leaves melded into tones reminiscent of tinted, scented candles--exotic cinnamon, bergamot, mocha--and they burned with the melody of the setting sun. If I stood at just the right angle, I felt as if a stained glass window stretched the length of my yard, filtering in deeply emotional tones of comforting light.

As I admired the color, and anticipated a longer merging experience, something suddenly caught my eye.

A single leaf.

The tree had gently shed it a moment before, tossing if off like a light layer of snow on a breezy winter day. It was a soft, natural movement. Viewing this from a second-floor windown, I was stunned. It was like a shrug.

Aha. So that is how it's done.

Then the leaf, moving through the air, twisted, turned, surged up, descended. It had moments of floating, flying. It was a celebration, a dance.

But the lesson for me had happened that split second before.

Being told to "let go" has a rawness to it. People often say this when they are sick of hearing of a hang-on, let-go dilemma. It's said with the same growl as "relax."

Luckily, nature teaches its own lessons, perfect and silent.

Though I had seen leaves fall in the past, I had never witnessed this in a warm-tinted landscape with joyful choreography. Much is written about the symbolism of fall for good reason. The pure mystery of separation is among the season's lessons, taught over and over, persistently and creatively. The moment I witnessed is repeated ...in neighborhoods lavish and simple...with every variety of leaf...and the trees softly surrender.

I watched as long as I could. The yellow leaf would soon merge with cool earth. Even e.e. cummings' inspired visual poem "l(a" was topped that day. I've taught that poem a lot, and thought I knew what I was doing as I showed classes the movement of the leaf in letters and sounds down the page. But that was simply a prelude for seeing this impromptu dance, wordless and compelling.

To let go is not to grit one's teeth in tension. It does not involve tearing and wrenching. There is no clenching. There is sadness but not regret. There is also a sense of expection: "and now..." The leaf was a master traveler.

As well as learnng from trees at sudden moments, I learn from my child. He is no longer a sleepy newborn but a gregarious first grader who knows how to separate from books, clothes, toys he has outgrown or no longer needs. He takes pleasure in giving things up, and goes about it strategically, calmly. Clearly, he does not get this from me.

Watching his competence eases the ache of loss I feel at his rapid passage out of early childhood.

And like the evaporation of dew, the release of night into dawn, the last reverberation of a bell, water off a duck's back...all of creation lets go.

On any random fall day, a bright yellow leaf will surf the wind and gently whisper (but only to those who are receptive): It's ok. Let go.

Written in 1998 but posted in memory of Sonia Zorich Klodor, dear friend and mother of Karen Zoller, May 30, 2008.