I used to think that if you let something go it was gone forever. Like letting go the hand of a person in raging floodwaters — if you did, they’d be gone forever — most likely.
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Various incidents over the years had given me confirmation of that — like when we let Kelly go her own way in the months leading up to her suicide. At the time I didn’t see that there was any other option. So I (we) let her go. We still kept tabs on her, knew a lot about what was happening with her — on the surface, but essentially we’d let her go. Then she came back and we started to think that all was well, that we’d done the right thing in letting her go.
And then she suicided. We lost her completely. Never to return and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. So there was confirmation, that when you let something go — you lose it.
But my thinking has changed gradually over the years. I’m now realising that the old poem about loving something and setting it free, then if it comes back it was meant to be —or thereabouts — was probably right.
I’ve come to see that my children — for instance — are not mine forever. I don’t have to keep tabs on them all the time, or make them feel guilty for not keeping in touch. If they choose to be in contact with me however, that’s a wonderful bonus. But if they don’t, then they can live their lives as they want to and thats it.
I remember visiting my parents and grumbling to myself all the way there, wishing myself anywhere else, but feeling the obligation that was instilled in me.
I see that it really was my choice to let go or not. I may not have done it any differently, but knowing that I had that choice may have made the visit feel better.
Like cleaning out a cupboard and dispensing with stuff I haven’t used for years, I’m learning to let go.
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And it feels awesome.