Let It Take Years

Letting go. It’s the oldest spiritual teaching in the world: just let go. But it’s always new somehow. It always seems to come back around as if I’ve never heard it or thought of it before. I think that feeling comes from a change in the substance of reality itself, the fiber of existence. When it’s time to let go of something, that fiber has changed and the very air I’m breathing is different. Reality moves on with or without my cooperation. By letting go and by growing, I’m able both to contribute to the evolution of things, and also get some relief from the pain of unconstructive attachment.

“Behold, I make all things new.”

I just got back from my honeymoon, so, I’m married now! Safe to say these past few months have been a time of change and transition. On the surface I’ve been aware of that all along. But what happens under the surface is always unexpected. I’ve become very good and interpreting my experience, at monitoring and taking note of the evolution of my life. But I’ve never gotten used to the way it feels when real inner change takes place. The odd thing is, when it comes, the feeling is always familiar. I recognize it. It’s a peaceful feeling, reassuring, and yet filled with the anticipation of new challenges. Then, when it passes—and it always does—I can’t recall it. I don’t mean I can’t remember what it feels like. I mean lose awareness that it even exists. Then, when it comes back, it always takes me by surprise, and I always know it inside and out. It’s like a room I keep popping in and out of. And when I’m not in it, I have no idea it’s there. But when I am, I know every cupboard, every drawer.

These days I’m there again, and I feel this strong pull to let go of things. Not abandon them, not give them up, but to loosen my grip. To just let them be there. I’m living with this strong sense of “I thought I knew what I needed, but now I see there’s more to it.” And it’s okay with me to realize that. I have an openness to correction from the universe. Over and over again in my life—and now once again—I’ve had the sense that the universe is saying to me: “Okay, now we can begin.”

I used to be in such a hurry. I still am, but not like I used to be. I’ll be 39 this month. Not old, but not so young anymore. No problem. I’ve decided that games, all games, get won in the second half. The first half was good. But I spent the first twenty years just finding my feet. As I enter the second half I’m not concerned with time slipping away. I’m more concerned with time running out. I feel like I’ve got so much to do. But that’s a blessing. I’d rather be driven mad by vision, than by a lack of it. I’ve become aware of this strong desire to have something to show for the passage of time. A marriage full of memories and closeness, shared risk and accomplishment; a list of completed stories; Embryonic Journey, The Claw, and maybe even Classical Gas, all mastered on the guitar. These are the trophies of the work it takes to become who I really am. “Yes,” I’ll say. “I’m seventy years old. And look at what I’ve learned. Look at what I’ve done. Look at how I spent that time.” I used to note that I was lucky to make it through my twenties with my idealism intact. It’s safely encased in my perspective and nothing can take it away now. As I look ahead I realize I’m more capable now of achieving my ideals than I ever have been. And my biggest obstacle, impatience, seems finally to be giving ground.

This mantra appeared in my head recently: “Let it take years.” I didn’t read it, I didn’t hear it. It just appeared in my head. Like myself telling me something. Let it take years. It’s good advice, I think. And besides, do I really have a choice?

Ever forward.

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