It was with some degree of trepidation that I wrote my first piece for THE WEEKEND not so long ago. Such fear stemmed from the deep reservations I have about writing about myself. This is because I am a fiercely private person and an introvert of sorts, so bearing my heart is never easy. But I press on, hoping that each piece I post will bring me closer to overcoming the dread of sharing things about me – a dread that was in no way diminished when I sat down and started to pen this piece, for, in addition to being somewhat personal, it is one that can be seen as being a bit on the woo woo side.
How woo woo? Well, on this particular weekend I had resolved to converse with my maternal grandparents. It had been a while since I last spoke to them. And while I am not that much into the supernatural, there are times when I allow my imagination to run free and engage in a sort of Q&A with people who I had esteemed while they were alive, hoping they would help me out of whatever rut I was in at the time. I usually asked a single question, a simple one – What would such and such do if such and such were alive? These inquiries are often the precursor to communion with these otherworldly beings.
When my grandparents were alive I would often reach out to them, particularly in times of need and they would always oblige. I had confided in them that I had been meaning to make a transition both in my professional and personal life. Unfortunately, there have been some major hiccups while I was making said transition. These setbacks have left me wondering what my next step should be. So this weekend I sat with them, and we spoke about what I should do next. Where should I go? How should I proceed? I asked. Things are falling apart, and I am at a loss as to what my next step should be.
Source
After about an hour or so of listening to me ‘...itching’ about my miserable state they finally spoke. There was this placid look about them despite the bad energy I was exuding. In fact, they smiled all throughout my ranting. And hose smiles seemed to form a halo around their lamb-like countenance. Without uttering a word they advised me to just “let go”. Let it crash they said in unison. And when it is all done, pick up the pieces and start moving forward again.
Now, you can imagine how peeved I was at receiving this kind of telepathic advice. It was bad enough subjecting myself to all this woo woo, but one would have hoped, at least, that I would have gotten something more profound from communing with them. But it was just my imagination anyway. Plus, if I were to be honest, what they told me was what I was telling myself. At least on a subconscious level. But a part of me still could not accept what my grandparents said. To let go. To let anything go seems rather defeatist. Allowing all you have labored to build to just go up in flames is the business of fatalists. I just could not accept this.
Unsatisfied, and might I daresay, dissatisfied with my grandparents’ advice, I approached my good friend Tim to see if he could point me in the ‘right’ direction. During our usual Sunday brunch, I conveyed my anxieties to him. He is one of those people who tells you what you need to hear as opposed to what you want to hear.
After I had finished telling him the things that were resting on my heart, an awkward silence stood between us for what seemed to be eons. Eventually, I broke said awkward silence by apologizing for expressing my reservations. There were many people with even greater problems I said to him. Why should I be complaining? There was a roof above me. There was food on my table and enough clothes and shoes to wear. This is more than many have, so be grateful I added. But then he stopped me in my tracks and gave me what I consider a mild chastening.
“Your grief is your grief,” he said. “Do not compare your struggle to other people’s. When you do this, you undermine who you are.” He added that it was in some way tantamount to swimming against the currents.
To be frank, this was not the response I was expecting from Tim, especially after that conversation with my grandparents in ‘Phantasmagoriastan’. I even began to wonder if like me he was losing his screws, for it seemed as if he was chatting with grandma and grandpa, too.
The trio's feedback troubled me so much that I spent Sunday evening mulling over the advice. I still am. Let go. Those words kept rolling back to me, over and over, and over again. And finally, I conceded that they gave me the confirmation I was looking for. And in this concession, I was forced to conclude that somehow, someway, we are destined to find the things for which we are searching. For many a weekend, I have been sifting through the cacophony of this overactive mind, trying to find some answers. In retrospect, I think I had already given myself this advice, and that sojourn into woo woo land and that chat with Tim were merely confirmations of what I had already conveyed to myself – grieve all you want. Grieve and let it go.
