is something I’ve had trouble with in my life. The first time I can remember was my first day of school. Oh how I wanted to stay with my Mommy. But she walked me the three blocks to the mean ol’ school in her pretty blue dress, holding my hand as I bit my lip. I sobbed and clung to her skirts as she handed me over to the teacher. No, I wasn’t ready to let go then.
The day I came home from school and discovered that my dog Rusty had been adopted by friends of my parents who had a ‘farm.’ Of course at the time I didn’t know that was parental code for the dog was put down, probably because he liked to dig holes in the yard or something or maybe he was sick? I don’t know. But I thought about him for months after that and would stand at the picture window in the livingroom trying to will him back into my life. Which by the way, didn’t work. I never saw that dog again.
My brother who died too young – who never got to know his kids – who was not with family when he left this earth. Still trying to let that one go.
My dad passing, quite possibly the biggest shock of my life since I knew he would never die – he was too ornery and too cantankerous to die and yet… Over the last ten years the grasp has certainly loosened but, again, still trying to let go of that one too.
Ironically, I was more than ready to let L.A. go – I truly was. So much so that when I returned in some ways it was as though I’d never been here. Things seemed strange and new, odd. And though I’ve returned to many of my old haunts, caught up with friends for the most part and am making baby steps in the direction of getting re-entrenched – it still seems so. Still seems not quite home. I’ve even wondered if I really should have come back here. Clearly, I wasn’t meant to be back east but does it then follow that I was meant to return to California?
And speaking of not letting go – yeah, it’s a tough one. Because my heart doesn’t want to let go. Even though my head is saying I must. And I trust my head, it’s usually right – almost always right. It knows that if I’m really going to re-entrench, put some sort of life back together and get on with things that that closed, clenched fist has to open. Has to let go. Because I don’t know about you guys but I’ve yet to finesse the art of making time stand still, of undoing bad decisions, of unsaying stupid things, of holding onto what doesn’t want to be held. I only know to tell myself, “One day at a time, yes?”