Letting go. I think it begins in the womb.
From the moment conception becomes consciousness we are assailed by the manifestations of an outside world. A frightening cacophony of vague and intangible sounds, held in check by the familiar and reassuring afro-rhythmic drumming of our mother’s heart.
We come into this world afraid of letting go…and continue this process up until the moment we are forced to do so for the final time. But life is all about starting over and letting go.
There are some guarantees in life; they’re just not the ones we want. It’s pretty much guaranteed that if you love you will be hurt, and that people regardless of their intention will undoubtedly disappoint you. You’re guaranteed to be misunderstood often, and to fail more times than not. But letting go and living, I mean really living, improves the stakes and increases the odds that you will love passionately, have friendships that will last a lifetime; grow and succeed beyond your wildest imaginings.
Sometime we hold on to too much; not just children and old clothes, but old and antiquated ways of thinking and believing. For sure there is comfort in ritual and the status quo, but there is also the danger of being out of step and left behind, simply because life is not static…it’s full of uncertainty, mystery and joy … and is always … always in flux.
It’s good to develop a philosophy about living; a way of engaging the world beyond our fears and failings. I use to think the more I enjoyed life the harder it would be to someday surrender it. I think now that it is actually the opposite—the more passionately I embrace living, whether by chance or circumstance—the more satisfied I will be at the end of my days.
I want to wear my life like Saturday clothes. You know like that favorite pair of jeans that fits so well in all the right places and compliments your behind. Carefully picked over and viewed in the dressing room mirror; then worn home from the store because they looked so good you didn’t want to take them off. Washed on gentle cycles and saved for special occasions, like those casual, public affairs where they were sure to draw a compliment.
Then one day, while doing laundry, they’re splattered with bleach… snagged at the pocket or stained while mowing the grass. You feel that sudden twinge of regret … of loss … but letting go is just the beginning, as you relegate them to Saturdays, where they continue to get broken in with house repairs and gardening—cleaning out the garage—being spit up on while babysitting the neighbor’s kid. They grow loose and shabby and faded; torn at the knees and frayed at the cuffs but still hold their form and flatter your behind.
You find yourself coming home from work or a party, and hurriedly pitching the business attire or little black dress for the comfort of those tattered jeans. Climbing into them is like climbing into the arms of a well-worn-lover, who knows your body, and smells of Cheer and Downey softener and the sweetness of having just showered.
Saturday clothes … lived in and worn well.
