This is the season of letting go. The thought comes a few weeks ago. I walk around with it uncertain. Letting go is not just about loss. It can feel good to lay down heavy things.That is what I tell myself. I try many times to write before I can find words. I promise myself I can throw it away unseen.
If this were the season of letting go, I would. . .
Let go of all the measurements and calculations to prove that I’m okay.
Let go of attempts to be good enough to merit love
Let go of all the people I have tried to get to fill the holes. Really. Let them all go. Wander out into traffic to forget me or not.
Let go of protecting myself from failure (who defines that anyway?)
Let go of needing to prove something, protect something, and stand out as something.
Let go of the worry about where I fit or what people think
I keep picturing Boy two and the bird. We were on our way down the driveway when I saw the cat. She had a bird in her mouth. I stopped the car. Boy two tore open the sliding door and leapt out. He pried open her jaws with his fingers and against her wishes, the cat let go. The bird flew up from her mouth into the air, across the lawn and into the sky.
I am the cat right now, but maybe I will also be the bird.
That’s how far I get. After that weeks go by and I can’t look at what I’d written or think another single thought about letting go. So much for the cat and the bird.
Over the weekend, I take Boy one to the airport to fly alone across three provinces. Upon arrival he is to find a taxi, buy a bus ticket, and use up five hours (all composed of sixty minutes) before boarding a bus. At the other end of the bus ride is two weeks of summer camp a very long way from home. It is my idea. (A fact which I hate myself for all the way to the airport.) Boy one is a tiny bit nervous (not nearly enough) but also intoxicated with the joy of so much trust, independence and adventure. I hug him goodbye at the airport. He walks away smiling.
Back in the car, I remember the season of letting go. My boy, in the air, above me, beyond me is tearing my heart out. I see a picture of us. Me privately grieving while I smile and gently push him away. He is too happy to see my tears. He cannot stop grinning. This is great comfort indeed. My heart hurts, but I’m doing my job if in only a whisper I can croak out the word, “Fly!” to my son.
A question knocks at the door of me. Might a season of letting go become also a season of flight? Not just for him, but for me?