Week Four: Letting Go

Letting go. It’s perhaps the most difficult challenge any of us face on our personal journeys. I’m convinced that I embellish the anguish more than most, likely the consequence of too much Young & the Restless during my formative years. I’d just as soon extract a molar from my mouth sans the pain killers than extract an important person, or an important “anything,” from my life.

Initially, I planned to write about my work week’s challenges, skirting more personal tests that have been a recurring theme in my life. And while I’d have plenty to scribble about from last week’s newspaper madness, it wouldn’t be a candid account of my cringe-worthy “coming to Jesus” sessions during the first month of my single-hearted search for wisdom.

A few weeks ago, I spent my Saturday morning sipping hot tea in a quaint, second-hand book store. After perusing the shelves for an hour or so, I purchased a six-week study book entitled, “Knowing God – Making God the Main Thing in My Life,” by Kimbery Dunnam Reisman. Still struggling to incorporate stillness into my daily practice, I decided that this book would be a great way to structure my early morning reflections. The $2 purchase proved itself a success, and within a matter of days I was actually eager to awaken at 5 a.m.

Last Wednesday morning, I relaxed in my meditation chair and thumbed through my devotional book until I reached the day’s reading, entitled “Our Gigantic Secret.” The scripture that preceded the devotion was both familiar and seemingly simple: “Always be full of joy in the Lord. I say it again – rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4). Disappointed, I discovered no earth shattering secret as I read one paragraph, and then the next. That is, until I focused on paragraph eight, which began, “The biggest enemy of joy in our lives is self-pity.” The gist of the paragraph – a God-centered life leaves no room for “me-centered” self-pity.

The devotional reading ended with an assignment – to list three things that I might do to increase my joy, and to implement at least one of those three things during my day. The first two items employed my love of the arts and were a bit flippant – to sing and dance to at least one song each day.  But the third item on my list required a deep breath. With drudgery, I wrote: “to let go of relationships that distract my pursuit of God.”

And with courage, that’s the practice I chose to enact that day.

The people entangled in these counter-productive relationships are certainly not bad people. But these all-consuming relationships have distracted my focus on this year’s commitment – a commitment that I take seriously despite the spinster and celibacy jokes I crack from time to time.

Author Mandy Hale writes, “Some relationships just don’t work out, no matter how badly both parties might want them to. Sometimes time and distance and circumstance gets in the way. And sometimes we have a purpose for our lives that can’t be fulfilled inside the bounds of that relationship.”

With humility (and yes, anger), I’ve faced the heartbreak that accompanies these relationships. I’ve exhausted ceaseless energy on the disappointments of these relationships and the people who slipped away as quickly as they entered my life. But never once, until recently, did I consider that their departure was guided by God.

I firmly believe that, at this time in my life, God has called me to be single. Perhaps there are life lessons that necessitate solitude. My goal for the next 11 months is to give God all of the energy I’ve given these failed, worldly relationships. Instead of seeking the acceptance and approval of others, I’m focusing that energy on a love that will never end in loss.

       I’m letting go.

Week Three and the Feline Fiasco

    Willie met me at the door at midnight, just as time chimed in the beginning of Week Three of my single-hearted search for wisdom. In classic Willie fashion, his shrill meows commanded: "Here I am, Momma Cat! Feed me! Pet me! I, in all my orange and cream glory, am the center of your universe!" (Note: this translation comes from two years of fervent feline study.)
    Curiously, Willie's cat companion, Waylon, wasn't by his side that night, even when I obediently spooned a can of Fancy Feast into his dinner bowl. Perhaps Waylon was hiding, plotting my punishment for breaking curfew? By midnight, my furry sidekicks and I were generally in bed, well into our nightly adventures in dreamland.
    Shedding my peacoat onto a nearby chair, I glimpsed my missing Oreo kitty, huddled in a corner underneath an end table. Kneeling by the unusually still tabby, I patted his head and whispered an apology.
    "I know it's late, but I'm drawing a bath," I yawned, grabbing a bag of Epsom salts to prepare my evening soak. It wasn't until after that soak, while towel drying the last drops of salt water from my limbs, that I noticed Waylon was still huddled in the same spot.
    Peeping underneath the end table again, I wrapped my hands underneath Waylon's arms and gently slid him from the floor and onto my lap. Waylon responded with a melancholy meow. And that's when I noticed his swollen left hind leg — and his limp.
    "Hello," answered the gruff voice of a nocturnal newsroom friend — a friend I call for many of life's emergencies. His voice softened as I tearfully explained the recent cat-astrophe. "You've got to get him to the vet, and soon," he instructed. "But try not to worry too much. And get some sleep."
    I doubt I slept more than two hours that night, cat naps at best, between checking on my crippled kitty. By daybreak, I was preparing my wounded Waylon (and myself) for the vet's office.
    "You silly kitty!" our veterinarian, Dr. Meghan, chuckled after an X-ray of Waylon's leg. "How did you break two bones?"
    Our trip to Dr. Meghan's office ended with a braced and bandaged leg. Canceling a weekend trip home, I assumed the role of Nurse Momma Cat. I doted on my dear cat as I painfully witnessed his struggle to wield himself along the paths of necessity — litter box and food dish. Waylon's broken leg rebelled against his other healthy, eager to move limbs — and his belly. Yet, in time instinct paved the way to progress, as Waylon learned to plant his paws into the carpeted floor and drag himself to the once unattainable litter box and bowl of Fancy Feast. After a few days of stellar pull-ups, Waylon's crawl graduated to a clumsy hobble. By week's end, Waylon had mastered his handicap and was, in true predator's precision, pouncing on his brother Willie (who was likely the culprit to his injury).
    Week Three's feline fiasco offered a fitting (although expensive) metaphor for this year's journey. While cold baths weren't a requisite this week, I'm clumsily crawling in this early stage of spiritual growth. But in time, and increased discipline, obedience and faith, I hope to be hobbling forward, preparing to walk my path of purpose — with inspiration from the Good Lord Above — and my four-legged friend here on earth.

A Taboo Week Two

    Ice-cold showers and Hershey's dark chocolate were critical commodities as I journeyed into Week Two of my single-hearted search for wisdom. I'm not sure what triggered my rebellious hormones, but they were undoubtedly my biggest obstacle this week, challenging this celebrated spinster's vows of submission and spiritual purity.
    Ironically, my desire for affection has remained dormant for several months now, following a couple of dating missteps that motivated me to stay the single course. Imagine my shock as a rather unladylike desire for companionship emerged last week.
    "Where did this come from?" I cried aloud after a few days of failed meditation. Moments of silence were as fleeting as my stash of dark chocolate chips, which I hungrily devoured for consolation. (I haven't forsaken gluttony!)
    Wednesday night, I crawled into a bed of layered blankets and blurted out to God, "Why now?!" A storm of frantic questions followed, proceeded by a blunt conversation. I fell asleep during that pleading prayer, confessing my innate, human imperfections.
    Hours later, I was roused by my bird-chirping alarm clock. Stumbling toward my meditation chair, I sank onto its cushions, grasping a mug of green tea. It wasn't until a few sips of my herbal elixir that I awakened to a personal epiphany — my bedtime hysteria had quelled, succeeded by a morning of stillness. Of peace.
    I focused on the morning's devotional reading as my marmalade tabby, Willie, crawled onto my lap. And I revisited my prayer from the prior night — this time, reassured that communion with God exists when we're willing to communicate with honesty and humility — and honor his response with obedience.