My mother did the wash every Monday of her life. When
she got really old, I volunteered to do it for her. With much coaxing, she
agreed, until I told her I couldn’t do it on a Monday. That ended that.
We all like to do some of the same things, over and over.
The problems arise when those habits become a yoke around our neck, like when
we want to keep too much stuff and realize we are at the beginning stages of
hoarding. We can’t let go because our things all have an intuitive connection
to people and experiences.
To let go of what I call “the same the same” means
letting go of fear. I see it at the music store where I’ve rented space for 34
years. It’s going out of business, and the workers and other teachers now walk
around like zombies. My response was to rent a new spot. As I agonize over
curtains, chairs, tables, supplies, and a move-in date, I try to roll with the
change.
Letting go is sad and spooky, whether it’s a
friendship, a death, or a job. My plan is to wear my Elvis costume on October
31, the last day at the music store. When I sing “Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound
Dog” and “Love Me Tender,” or ask strangers for a peanut butter and banana
sandwich, I’ll ride along on a wave of optimism. I figure it’s the only way to
go.
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