If I Let Go…
Art Wendy Andrew
I’ve been almost jolted by a period of quiet reverie.
Whereby the last several weeks have not been marked by chaotic emotional ups and downs that tend to accompany acute grief.
Instead I’ve felt steady.
Tinged by a daydream like quality. A potential glimpse into the future.
This is what life may look like in the future. When the grief spreads out even more…
I’m afraid to love it as much as I do.
There’s a residue of betrayal inherent in admitting that I love my life right now.
Because Tanner isn’t here to enjoy it with.
Because it’s so fleeting, and I know the grief and pain will return.
But I even love those parts.
The grief, the pain, the longing.
The grind of creation, and tending, and loving.
The strep throat, the weird dreams, the long
days spent alone.
I’ve found space inside me for it all to exist.
Without warring. Or shoulding, or woulding.
It’s just all ok. Better than ok. It’s all enough.
Truly enough. I feel satisfactorily full.
The kind of satisfaction we feel after we’ve genuinely earned our wages.
Though in my my case I haven’t been working for wages, it’s been about enoughness.
The desire to statiate a hunger.
A hunger for something elusive.
Without working for it, it arrived.
It arrived when I let go.
Let go of all of my ideas of how it might be. What the future would look like.
The chase of the ego.
It arrived when I surrendered to life’s arising.
When I became attuned to responding to that phenomenon with reverence.
It’s here now.
Everything is enough.
I am in love with life.
