My oldest daughter and I are at an Air BnB in NYC. One of our hipster hosts is studying to be a psychologist, which means I've been reading a lot of Melody Beattie while here. (It's true: if I rent your home, I will read your captivating books.) These ladies get it. They have a guitar, bongos, a turntable, yoga mats for our use, six types of tea ... even a remote-controlled white noise machine! Upon opening the front door of their Westside apartment, we were greeted by these words, this potent reminder: LET GO.
Having worked our way through Boston and upstate New York, we are here to visit colleges. And (who are we kidding?) to bond. I don't get a lot of 1:1 time with her. We're both busy. To have eight days together is a mitzvah. We're each in the process of letting go. Her: childhood, certain frenemies, prom expectations. Me: what my kid will like in a college and why, my parents' home in Petaluma and, by extension, their lives. The latter has been especially challenging, making it hard to write. Words seem small and insignificant when you're attending to the all-encompassing business of erasing lives. To lose the last tangible part of them has cratered me anew in ways unexpected.
Each time I go to pack up, clear out, discard, I'm left standing (or kneeling or in a fetal position) in their living room in tears. Last time, the trigger was learning that they used this silly-putty-of-sorts to adhere my grandmother's handpainted china to the dining room display shelves—in the event of an earthquake of course. They were, above all, Midwesterners who kept things safe.
Especially me.
To lose them is one thing. To let go is another. It may, however, be the only way through. Or so I read recently here.
Unrelated postscript: our Sonic Yoga instructor closed with this song this morning. Aron Wright also covers In the Sun, as featured on Gray's Anatomy. Worth a listen.
Having worked our way through Boston and upstate New York, we are here to visit colleges. And (who are we kidding?) to bond. I don't get a lot of 1:1 time with her. We're both busy. To have eight days together is a mitzvah. We're each in the process of letting go. Her: childhood, certain frenemies, prom expectations. Me: what my kid will like in a college and why, my parents' home in Petaluma and, by extension, their lives. The latter has been especially challenging, making it hard to write. Words seem small and insignificant when you're attending to the all-encompassing business of erasing lives. To lose the last tangible part of them has cratered me anew in ways unexpected.
Each time I go to pack up, clear out, discard, I'm left standing (or kneeling or in a fetal position) in their living room in tears. Last time, the trigger was learning that they used this silly-putty-of-sorts to adhere my grandmother's handpainted china to the dining room display shelves—in the event of an earthquake of course. They were, above all, Midwesterners who kept things safe.
Especially me.
To lose them is one thing. To let go is another. It may, however, be the only way through. Or so I read recently here.
Unrelated postscript: our Sonic Yoga instructor closed with this song this morning. Aron Wright also covers In the Sun, as featured on Gray's Anatomy. Worth a listen.
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