Letting Go

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in my own life.

Like, who is this person emerging…showing up in the desert, this small town, the sunrise and the sunset.

I’m beginning to wonder if maybe there’s something to be learned here that can be integrated anywhere.

Why wait? Why blame? Why not “be” with the swirling of life around us wherever we are?

Everyday that I have been here, I’ve sent hand-written notes to my children. I enclose a little something from my day or the environment. I haven’t hand written a note in years.

Yesterday for Hank, I enclosed a sky-blue chalk marker that used to be my mom’s. She was an amazing seamstress. I like to think about her finger tips gracefully holding the chalk and gliding it across the fabric…and now my son doing the same.

Helen texted me a couple of days ago and told me that she’s been working with leather, crafting bracelets, wallets and belts. So I sent her a little handmade leather Texas keychain I conveniently found on the ground (without a key).

I love this morning ritual of writing them notes and figuring out what small trinket I will place, ever so gently into the envelope.

It feels real. I can touch it. They can touch it.

A few days ago I sent Hank this card and some dirt from my yard. I remember his saying something similar to me when he was 17 and heading out to NYC.

It’s feels good to know that my kids are okay…okay without me. I think in a way, I needed permission, both from them and myself, to leave. We’ve been connected at the hip for so long…it’s been just the three of us.

I watch them thriving. My departure has been good for everyone.

Oh this life. The irony of letting go and getting closer.

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