It happened. Your world shook with its tremors and then collapsed.
You were given no warning, no preview of the darkness that awaited to descend on you.
It happened. And just like that, it was over.
The happening.
But here you are, still cradling your broken pieces from that yesterday. From that moment.
Has it been months now? Or a year? Or too forgotten a date to remember?
The bruises are a shade darker, and the cracks a little less open. And you rest impatient waiting to feel whole again. Trying and trying to let letting go take over so that you can have all of your heart back, your soul untarnished.
So I ask you, what does it mean to let go?
To sit in utter darkness and let memory do the talking until it’s voice is hoarse and comforting. Those tiny details of those days sneaking up on you as you walk with your walls down in the supermarket. And that sucking in of your breath as you feel the very first stabs of pain. The half-shutting of your eyes so that you can still hold all of your brokenness in your two palms. And the effort to keep walking, talking, eating, breathing, living.
YOUR BROKENNESS. SO ALIVE.
TREMBLING.
Your demons on the forefront casting shadows on reality, warping it to suit their own thirsts. While you watch, ensnared with self-doubt, guilt and fear, as memory lends you no help.
BUT WAIT. WAIT TILL THEY HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO TALK ABOUT.
BECAUSE THERE WILL COME A DAY WHEN THEY GET TIRED.
WHEN THEY DROP THEIR SPEARS JUST WATCHING YOU CHOOSE TO LIVE, AGAIN AND AGAIN.
Wait, because letting go is not forgetting. Letting go is to remember, but with a smile.
Letting go is to feel an old self shed its way down to your ankles while you stare at your new, glistening skin.
Letting go is to love.
To love those very demons and memories until they become soft enough to be put to sleep.
And to love that broken open heart, not waiting to be fixed but celebrated.
Letting go is to lay with your fears, naked in your light. To see them like you would see wounded animals. Howling and clawing their way through, only to break the surface so that you can see them, heal them, hold them with all your might.
Letting go is bravery. The kind that weaves you into your own hero. Where the past no longer holds shackles onto your present and where your future awaits patiently to be constructed, brick by brick, moment by moment.
Letting go is to finally see the wings you were gifted when the ground decided to throw you off. The way your early flutters seemed only to bring you down, only to slowly, steadily, raise you up and up.
This is what it means to truly let go.
This is what it means to knock on love’s door.
Again and Again.
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