Dear Friend,
One of my favorite parables crosses traditions. Versions of it appear in Buddhism, Christianity, and in the various rooms of Recovery. It begins with a woman hiking a steep mountain trail when she slips and catches herself on the side of a cliff. She is hanging by her fingertips, feet swinging above the void.
“Help! Is anybody out there?” she calls.
A calm voice answers. “Yes. It’s me, God.”
“Oh thank God,” she says. “I’m hanging off a cliff. What should I do?”
The voice replies, “Let go.”
The woman stares into the abyss, blinks twice, and yells back,
“Is anyone else out there?”
Ha. But also, oof.
Whether it’s accepting a new reality or staring into our final disappearance, letting go is rarely graceful. As the amazing writer Anne Lamott reminds us, “everything we let go of has claw marks on it.” True words.
I’ve been learning that one firsthand. A month ago, my eight-year relationship with Kevin ended. The sentence still catches in my throat when I say it, Friend. Since then, the floor and I have become well acquainted. Some days I lower myself down gently. Other days my legs give out without warning. Either way, I end up there. And I don’t try to stop it anymore.
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