Thin String

All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.-Havelock Ellis

When is letting go and holding on the same thing?

I think I am doing both right now.

I remember when I was about eight years old, I went to the zoo with my younger sister and my Dad.

We had a fun day (as I remember), and my Dad bought us each a balloon. My father handed me the two balloons as he put my little sister in the car.

Then, I accidentally let go of her balloon, and it floated away. I felt awful. I remember the emotion. It was guilt. The feeling was like being washed with rain. Water was pouring over me, soaking me, and I couldn’t get dry. It was a very sunny day, but my being was saturated. I was covered in failure.

Eventually, I had to let go of more than her balloon. I had to release my sister completely. She died when she was only eight years old from leukemia. I remained here, a sister one minute, and then, an only child the next. I relinquished.

The feeling I had as she “floated away” wasn’t like being washed in the rain; it was more like, in my mind, I was trying to shoot to the sky to hold her hand one more time. There was no guilt, but certainly there was grief. I realized I was here and she was gone.

So, how does this story of loss connect to my life now?

I am holding on to one I love. The vision of a possible painful outcome compels me to cling to her. Yet, I know of disappointment, and I am not stubbornly possessive, so I have an internal desire to let go. I want to move on and away.

Yet, sometimes holding on and letting go are one and the same.

As a young girl, I was holding the balloon. I still remember I had a tight grip, but somehow the balloon flew away from me. Watching it fly was like watching my heart release and travel with it. I let go too soon. The failure to hold on was my failed obligation and purpose.

This instance is not the point of departure or the cessation of holding on. I must still endure.

I’m holding on as I am preparing to let go.

Hopefully, this time, when this loved one floats away, it will be toward independence and health.

I do not want to feel like I relinquished control, but rather that I just voluntarily stepped back from any claim to her.

I am fearful. I am hopeful.

The thin string I hold is in my hands for a moment. This is my momentary purpose.

If I pass it to her carefully, maybe her feet will stay grounded. I think letting go and holding on can be the same thing, as I want her to hold on, and then I can let go.

It is just a passing game when the time is right.