She Let Go
I am calm and cool, warm and not, at the same time. A brisk autumn walk, turned coldish at the end. The grandpa I passed wearing a leather Eagles jacket and black knit cap shivered and breathed into his cupped hand as we passed. “Cold,” he shuddered with eye contact when we shared the same sidewalk square for an instant.
Moments before I had been sitting on the sidewalk, taking in the warm glow of the tree across the street. I felt the frigid pavement, but it was worth the sit. The phone stopped working just before I arrived here. Despite there being some percentage left in the teens, it suddenly stopped playing the podcast, stopped letting me add photos to my Google Keep memo of ideas and reflection, stopped acting as a camera. It just went black, and apparently shut down.
I shoved the device in my pocket thinking this must have happened for a reason. I’m meant to enjoy the rest of my walk without distraction. I turned the corner and there in front of me was a magnificent tree. So tall and full, with every color of fall right there, highlighted by the setting sun. I stood and took it in for a minute and then decide to backtrack a bit to where the sunlight hit the sidewalk, and to take a seat. And there I stayed for quite some time, just to the right of the driveway of 328, gazing at the tree in front of 327, a tall white house with black trim, I think, but don’t quote me on that.
It was amazing, the longer I stayed there, the more I began to notice. First I focused on the tree itself, the leaves all around, the sounds and colors. With time I began to expand my awareness from the tree to the panorama of my vision. Eventually I noticed the mint green siding on the house beside 328. I had noticed the stone on its face earlier, but the mint green took a little longer to register. The house beside it, was red like a barn, and there was a slanted white picket fence, probably one of those plastic ones, made to last forever. It is a windy day. I woke up to a wind advisory on my phone. The weather vane/windmill lawn ornament, not sure what is really called, but it was round, about the size of a plate, and stood on a tripod of metal legs. It spun incessantly the entire time I sat. That little corner reminded me of the Wizard of Oz- a little farm in the middle of the block. Even after I noticed the mint green, I spotted a hornets's nest hanging from the craggy old tree farther down the block. This tree too, I would have photographed had I a functioning camera. It had no leaves left, perhaps it was actually two trees, that reached high into the sky. Behind it were charcoal clouds and if the tree were a musical instrument it would be cymbals- KABOOM! BANG! CRASH! duh duh duhhhhhh! It looked like lightening should come of out nowhere to finish off the image. It was beautiful, the sun shining in the foreground on the life clinging on for one more day, as the storm threatened in the background, reminding us that death must come after a good life and before a new one. Looking back at my Beauty, I wanted to take it all in. I was scared that without the crutches of my camera, I would fall. I was scared that my waning memory would fail me today. I was scared that this moment would just be gone- poof- never to be seen again. And then I started to ponder, as I tried to not think at all, what would be the problem with that? Why do we need to save everything for later? Actually, I didn’t think that in the moment, but I am thinking that now. In that moment, as I struggled to photograph the colors and sounds and smells of autumn with my mind, I did have a thought. Just let go. Let go. If you are meant to remember this, you will. If you worry about remembering it, you probably won’t. Just be in the moment. Enjoy the tree, the sun, the coolness penetrating your too thin workout pants, and the sounds of the leaves cascading down the street, running like people at the climax of an apocalyptic movie. She just let go. Its the title of a poem I first listened to on the corner of 8th & Bainbridge. It was two years ago. I had 5 minutes before work. She just let go. Its been a go-to ever since then. Its short, maybe 3 or 4 minutes I think, and the man who reads it has the voice of freedom. She just- let- go. His spacing in the poem is unique and I have wondered if I read it without first hearing it conveyed by him, would I have heard those same words? Would I have gotten the same meaning? If I read it aloud now, would I use his emphasis or would my own flow naturally? She just- let- go.
So I continued to gaze up in awe and wonder at this towering soul of a tree. The colors- so varied and yet patterned. What hues would I need to put on my palette if I were to paint this scene? Should I rush home and get a sketch pad? Perhaps the computer to begin this story? No. It might rain. And that would disrupt the whole “letting go” thing anyway. Be okay with no crutches. Trust yourself, Kim. Just be. Just-let-go.
So back to the tree. First I noticed the yellows and greens, chartreuse perhaps, of the bottom area. Over to the left side were oranges and browns and a little bit of red, but where red really burned like a flame was in the middle of the tree. Just above the yellow green fish-shaped bottom section, the orange-brown and red started to take shape and a small cluster right in the center, highlighted by a leafless section of openness, sparkled in the sun’s warm spotlight. I looked down, and noticed the trunk also enjoyed the rays that gave its brown drabness a bit of yellow flare. The dark knot to the left and the bark peeled away by nature or a child, shone like a wound, weathered in time. The top left, closest to the house, had already dropped its leaves. What made these particular pieces of life leave first? The wind today is intense, the sounds the the leaves make as they hang on for dear life is both soothing and haunting. I am only here bearing witness for these few minutes. These leaves have been here since spring! Oh to think of what they would have seen had they eyes of their own!
As I write at this moment, I wonder if I will publish this. I momentarily thought about the blog as I sat on the sidewalk, but I dunno… why? Is the blog just another way that I am striving to hold on to the crutches, to find my way in the world, to show someone, somewhere, that I am a person with thoughts and ideas worth hearing? Why? Why is this something I need? Is it about making money? Is it about feeling I am a being of worth? Is it about making an impact on this world? What is it all about?
Before I found my seat facing 327, I walked. Up one block, down another, making my way to Albertson Park. I took photos, sent texts, listened to parts of a podcast, wrote down ideas in a memo, watched one guy play basketball on his own, saw and heard many cars, but few people. I did notice a woman I see regularly at Wawa, but she was too far away to say hello. I met the man who lives across the street from 400 W Monroe Ave. While walking, I saw many things. I sauw a sign. I don’t remember the exact words (I did take a photo!), but it was something to the effect of: We are given eternal life through belief in Jesus Christ. I never really paid attention to signs like this, as I saw them as paraphernalia of hyper-religious people. But my time spent learning about and practicing spirituality and working at a Catholic school, has opened my mind to these things more. I believe in this sign. I agree. Regardless of whether you use “Jesus Christ” or any spiritual belief, the belief itself can open us up to eternal life- we are one, from ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we each have a short stint on earth to do our best to play a part, and then its time to make room for someone else… So my question in that moment was, if so much of today’s society has been informed by Christianity (public holidays, the calendar, what it so often means to be mainstream in the media), why is death and dying so taboo? Do a large number of people actually believe in eternal life? Like for real, not just what you say at a worship service? Of course the readings at funeral services remind us that we need not feel distraught by death, but many people do. The more I learn and think about life and the choices we have about whether to suffer or not, I realize the immense power I have inside. This opening of consciousness is… well, I don’t exactly know. But I’m grateful that I am thinking about it.
As I sit here in this rocking chair, a chair I was rocked in as a baby, I smell cinnamon buns and wonder, “where is that coming from?” I look to my right and see the small bit of wine left in the glass I just recently tasted. Its not cinnamon buns, but isn’t it interesting how my brain thought that? Before I opened up the computer to let these words flow, I spotted the 1/4 glass of wine left on the table from last night. I love wine, but don’t buy it much because I always end up throwing away half of a bottle. Money has been tight since coming back to the east coast, and wine just hasn’t been in the spending window. But friends gifted me this bottle and, unbeknownst to them, it is my favorite label. I waited a week or so before popping the cork, but last night I decided it would be nice, alongside the freshly spiraled zucchini and mushroom sauté. A different friend passed-on the spiralizer last year, and this was my first time trying it. The zucchini core and stub were oddly bizarre and beautiful. I took a photo. The wine was nice, but I was tired and clearly didn’t finish drinking the pour. Well, after my mindful sit with the tree of life this afternoon, I decided to give the wine another try. Is it weird to drink wine that’s been sitting out almost 24 hours? Eh, I did it anyway. First I looked at it. Then I slowly brought the glass to my nose, noticing the design on the glass given to me by my sister some number of Christmases ago, a hand-painted teacher in different outfits with “teachery” things all around- an apple, A+, a pencil… you get the idea. It smelled quite nice, sweet and much like I remember regular old grape juice smelling the last time I paid attention to that, probably many years ago. With eyes closed, I tipped the glass and my head back a bit and allowed the cool liquid to flow to my lips. I let in just a little bit and tried to let it sit on my tongue, welled up in my mouth as long as possible so as to savor the flavor. Pow! It hit me with surprise. I have no idea what a mulberry looks like or tastes like, but that’s what came to mind. A bunch of berries, hanging on a tree. Then I noticed cocoa, a chocolatey flavor, and then juicy ripe red cherries. Then it was gone, swallowed and the taste was still there, but mellow and different. I did it again, taking time to smell the aroma a few times, then closing my eyes to take another sip. Pow! It happened again, the image of berries immediately jumped in front of my mind’s eye. So sweet, and beautiful this little glass of wine. I set it down, thinking it best to save some for later. I didn’t notice cinnamon, but I’ll have to look for it with my next sip. After the tasting, I found the laptop. Carefully opening it, began to type. It’s dark now. I lowered the brightness on the screen a moment ago, turned on the keyboard lights, and continue to type. Alone in a dark room, I let go and let the words flow. An airplane is again flying above in my awareness, the refrigerator continues to hum. Out the sliding glass door it is dark except for the silouhettes of pine trees against the still slightly illumined sky, darkest at the top, lightest just where the trees must meet the buildings, the buildings lost in the color of night.
What will I do with the rest of the evening? For now, I am just going to continue letting go. Maybe I’ll take another crack at that cinnamon note. I am grateful to all of the friends and family and strangers and everyone in between that have brought me to this day. I am grateful to the animals and plants. I am grateful to the vast sky, always instilling a sense of wonder and possibility.
The refrigerator goes quiet and I hear the typing that my own fingers create. The creak of the old rocker as I arch my back between sentences. I notice a tickle in my sinuses just before a sneeze and very very quietly in the distance, goes the beep beep beep of construction wrapping up for the day. When I returned to the apartment, just outside the door, I felt a buzz in my pocket. If the phone had no power, how could it buzz? Back inside, I pulled it out and viola!- the phone was on, a text came through, and it was still at 16%. God works in mysterious ways.
Here is a link to "She Let Go" by Safire Rose read by John Siddique
Image from: http://wellbalanced.me/2015/04/26/she-let-go/
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