Letting Go

Once again I am forced to get really honest with myself about my resistance to letting go.  I work so hard to prolong transitions.  I don’t like the feeling of being neither “here” nor “there”, yet I dig my heels in during the “in between” to make sure it takes as long as humanly possible and that everything has drag marks on it when I reach the other side.

Why do we love history more than reality?  Is it because the teller of it becomes the master of it?  I remind myself at each fork in the road to move forward with courage, knowing God is with me, yet I sit at that intersection putting on the left blinker, then right blinker before I go straight.

For a decade I can try to recreate that one Tuesday at 3PM when I was 17 years old, and it rained but the sun was still shining, and Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” was playing on the radio, and I was wearing my favorite acid washed jeans, and was driving my first car – the Plymouth Turismo, and at just that moment a Red Tailed Hawk flew by and looked at me, and…

Well, you get the point.

I have often said only a fool would stand outside in the middle of a snowstorm, weeping and lamenting that a rose bush will not bloom, but yet we spend years doing CPR on things in our lives that are dead and stinking.  If it was once great, doesn’t it deserve the respect of a proper burial?  Play “Taps” for it, pour out a little Kool-Aid, shed a tear and then get on with the living.

Yet, we keep false hope alive like continuing to drink the last sips of coffee after discovering there are coffee grounds on the bottom of the cup.  You keep sipping and remain startled that the last bitter sips are not as pleasing as the blissful firsts.  But you sip and think, “yuck” and even make that face.  Only 5 minutes later you ignorantly sip it again.  Telling the coffee it is bitter is not making it taste better so I suppose it has to get bad enough that you just put it down…