I mailed myself a letter the other day. Or more accurately I tried to mail myself a letter. It seems that the mailman isn’t interested in picking up mail from one address, only to return it a day later to that same address.
So, as I checked the mail, the box literally bursting with magazines, bills, and the latest Netflix selection, buried at the bottom was my letter, face down, just as I had left it two days prior. Postage stamp, but no postmark. I thought for a moment about running it down the street and surreptitiously placing it in a neighbor’s box. Nope. Too lazy.
Walking back to The Manor, I placed the mail on a wooden table in the foyer, slipping the current edition of Cosmo and a dark-chocolate envelope containing my letter from the pile.
And now, here I sit upstairs at my little white writing desk with the purple crystal knobs that I love so much, staring at my unopened letter and thinking about how hard it is to let go.
What does it mean to let go? Does it mean that we stop caring? That we stop loving? That we stop blaming? That we stop protecting? And how do we let go without feeling like we’re killing ourselves in the process?
Opening that letter felt like cheating. After all I hadn’t really mailed it to myself, so much as walked it out to the mailbox one day, only to retrieve it two days later. The letter hadn’t gone anywhere. It hadn’t been sorted or stacked or bunched. The only hands that had touched it had been mine. I opened it anyway.
Inside I had printed out the “Instructions for Freedom” from Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love on a thick sheet of neon-green stationary. Ten neat simple steps for letting go. But what exactly was I letting go of?
The short answer: me.
Step 1: Life’s metaphors are God’s instructions. Right now the metaphor for my life is like that scene in a dramatic movie when a flock of birds take flight, but really what the audience is supposed to feel is how everything has changed, or will change, or is about to change—or very likely could change if only the main character would follow the correct path along her own hero’s journey and stop questioning herself. Enough with the self-doubt already!
Step 2: You have just climbed up and above the roof. There is nothing between you and the Infinite. Now, let go. So I haven’t actually climbed anywhere ... but I could very easily walk out onto the veranda. Or perhaps go up to the attic. But I get the symbolism. It’s just little ole me and God, hanging out. I’m sharing with him my fears, and he’s doing what he does best: listen.
Step 3: The day is ending. It’s time for something that was beautiful to turn into something else that is beautiful. Now let go. Here comes that self-doubt again. A little voice says, “But what if you’re not really ready yet? What if you fail? There’s more security in doing what you’ve always done. At least you know you’re good at that. At least you know where you stand. At least it makes sense”. I let go anyway.
Step 4: Your wish for resolution was a prayer. Your being here is God’s response. Let go, and watch the stars come out—on the outside and on the inside. I felt compelled to go out on the veranda for this one. If only to catch a glimpse of the stars dotting the night sky. The hardest resolutions are those we make with ourselves.
Step 5: With all your heart, ask for grace, and let go. I ask for grace in my new career. I ask for grace in my new relationships. I ask for grace in all things. I resolve to let go of the past.
