Letting it Go – Part II
Very early this morning, while most practical people were in their beds peacefully slumbering, I had a revelation about myself. I’m going to get a little metaphoric here. I’m a poet, this is how I think, so bare with me.
I’ve come to view the difficult, disappointing, and heart breaking challenges in my life like a great swamp (or maybe a small brackish lake). In all of its discomfort, I wade through it, neck deep at times, until I get to the other side on dry land. Soaking wet, but safe. Or so I thought.
What is later revealed to me, are black slimy leaches all over my body slowly sucking at my blood, leaving marks and scars behind when I frantically peel them off upon discovery.
I thought I could cross the swamp unscathed, but there are things in that swamp that latch onto me without me knowing it. And it’s not until I get to the other side and I strip down, completely naked and take a complete survey of myself that I find all the leaches.
On March 30th, I posted an article titled Let It Go – Babies Do! written by ETR contributor Srikumar Rao. In it, Rao talks about how to control our own experiences by letting go of preconceived perspectives we create about people or events.
A marriage counselor Rao knows spoke about the reasons couples split up.
"The number-one reason they are unable to come to terms is that they never let go.”
Early this morning, I realized, that without knowing, this is the road I was traveling in one of my own relationships. A very important one too, I might add. In mid conversation, I found myself taking inventory of an intense anger and trying to trace its origin. Without tossing all my personal life across the internet, what I discovered is that a great deal of my anger stemmed from one conversation that took place a couple of years ago. One conversation. Years ago.
This is the reason for this post – to say that I have good understanding the re-direction Rao writes about, but a better understanding of exactly how much work peeling off blood-sucking leaches will take.
