Letting Go

My former landlord had a refrigerator magnet that read, If Momma ain’t happy then ain’t nobody happy. I’m no one’s mother, but I can relate. My mood does wander to the dark side now and then.

It wasn’t that long ago that I belonged to a gang of one. I didn’t worry about ripples, or the ponds they were in. But when nets were cast out, I was caught. I paid too much attention to what I found there, but spent too little time looking after myself.

Taking care of things fills a need I didn’t know I had, or maybe was in denial about. I either channeled some maternal instinct, or a brood in need of rearing was left on my doorstep. A bit of both, I guess. But some of this has worn thin and I’ve left the Open sign on after hours. I can see why folks hire babysitters every so often.

I’ve learned that situations can be manipulated nurtured to yield a certain result – probably not unlike pruning a plant. I’m no gardener, and maybe that was no analogy. I’ve added my voice to many conversations that didn’t need it. The more I heard my own, the more that silence sounded appealing. How does one unring a bell? One can’t. One can only hear the sound and move on. I did both – or so I thought.

My breath continues to fog up windows I shouldn’t be looking through. I don’t know why I stay connected to, interfere with, or even care about things that can grow on their own. What need does this fill? Trying to find the answer has been work. Letting go must be a difficult trait for a mother to learn, if she ever does. My tool kit doesn’t seem to have the necessary shears.

Can you I go back to that special place no one knew about? Is it there? Does it have to be rebuilt? Even a mother may not know the answer. Letting go might be that first baby step to finding out.