I am surrounded by boxes, piles of paper, chaos.
We move house this week.
I’ve moved house almost every year since I was 18. I am used to it.
If I am honest, I may never get used to it. Isn’t it only human to want to be settled? To long for a “safe space”?
Each move necessitates some refining-downsizing-letting go. Each move requires me to remove my tight grip on that which I own, those things I tend to call “mine”. Each move challenges me to loosen my hold. To let go.
So I try to let go. And in doing so, I start thinking that life is a constant journey of acquiring and letting go. Embracing new possibilities. Letting go of old dreams. Purchasing new things in the belief they will make us happier. Then letting them go when we realise they are only things. Making new friendships, and letting go of those who were, it seems, never really “friends” after all.
I must let go. Whether of things, people or hopes. You see, I get weighed down when I don’t let go. I carry my baggage, I carry my “dream future” and in doing so, I cannot make space for the unexpected, the surprises.
So I let go. And I may weep as I do so. For life does not often turn out as we expect. Instead it brings unpredicted joy. And little sadnesses too – which sometimes mount up and merge to create a big sadness.
I let go. I say goodbye. I pack my life up once more.
And as I leave – with fewer boxes, I feel lighter somehow.