Letting Go, for real

As Lindy and I volley last looks at Living Is for Living: a Caregiver’s Story, I wrestle the same old same old: what if my words upset someone, what if there’s a glaring mistake, what if I’m oversharing, what if Mom wouldn’t like what I wrote?

“In the full realization of our repetitiveness, the best thing is to stop saying anything for a while, and in that saying nothing, something begins to break down and opens us up.”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 2

Heeding Whyte’s words, I quiet my anxious mind and observe:

• a dear friend, in reference to caring for her father, texts: “I remember you asking me, ‘how do I know when [Mom] is ready to let go’, and I told you ‘you will know because it will just happen naturally'”;

• another dear friend, in the midst of caring for her brother, asks about the book and when I share my concerns, offers the warmest of hugs;

• searching Mom’s things for the key to her safety deposit box, I discover Henry Van Dyke’s I Am Standing Upon the Seashore, describing a sailboat reaching the horizon: “Gone from my sight. That is all“; and

• I meet my brother Dave for breakfast and, still keyless, we make up fun stories about what we might find inside Mom’s box before he asks me about the book and advises me to let it go.

I do realize, all this writing has been a way I’ve continued to care for Mom, even after her death. This book has given me space to visit and revisit our lifetime together; it has helped me to grieve, process, and heal. It’s reminded me to laugh.

What if this next stage, publishing, is less about setting myself off for new horizons, and more about sending off the lessons I’ve learned? What if letting go is really more about handing over, and in so doing, setting free? What if I choose love, not fear? What if it’s all going to be okay?

As Van Dyke concludes: “Her diminished size is in me—not in her. And, just at the moment when someone says, “There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”