For Christmas, my sister-in-law gave me a sweet little gift called a Buddha Board. I’d never heard of them, but when I opened the gorgeous box with the slogan “Master the art of letting go,” I knew it was inspired. It’s a very simple Zen-style easel that allows you to paint with water, and as the water evaporates your painting fades, “leaving you with a clean slate and a clear mind,” as the marketing says.
I don’t know about clearing my mind, but there is a certain enforced freedom, watching my imperfect-but-painstakingly-drawn creations fade to nothingness. More than once, I’ve wanted to take a picture of the drawing so I could keep it and show someone, which didn’t seem nearly as ironic at the time as it should.
I guess I just don’t like letting go. But one of the realities of this time-bound existence is that nothing lasts forever. As this year has brought so many profound changes within and around me, I’ve gained a lot of experience in letting go -- mostly of stuff I didn’t like in the first place, like the piles and piles of I’m-not-good-enoughs hiding just beneath the surface. Releasing myself from my negative beliefs has been one of the greatest joys of this healing journey for me.
Letting go of the stuff I’ve loved is a whole ‘nother story.
I learned a huge lesson in this (or perhaps tried to learn it, anyway) while we were in the red rock canyon country around Moab this past spring. We’d just set up our camp when my husband heard a weak chirping sound coming from the tufts of grass below his hammock. Turns out we’d disturbed a wounded little bat who was in the process of dying. It was about three inches long, and even though I can’t say I’m an “animal lover,” I was drawn to the poor thing. So, from the safe distance of across camp (bats are kinda creepy, after all), I started to send healing energy to it.
For most of an hour, I was offering healing light to this little bat, and it would periodically respond from its slumped position. In bursts of energy, it would lift up, or stretch its wings, or weakly rally, as I encouraged it to find healing. Finally, after all that time, it lifted its head, stretched its wings out full, and took to the air -- for about six feet, before it fell like a rock. When that little girl (I don’t know why I decided it was a girl, I just did) hit the dirt, the impact exploded in my body like thunderclap.
I didn’t have to go over to check on her; I knew she was gone.
I don’t like death. I dislike it even more than bats, apparently. I so wanted that little bat to live, to go on eating bugs and flying by sonar, or doing whatever it is bats do. But it was her time, and I spent long hours after that wondering if I’d been torturing her by trying to keep her alive.
I feel like that bat came into my life to teach me a lesson about letting go. That there are some things I can’t heal. That when something is ready to transition, to change, to die, the greatest gift I can offer it is to honor its life and bless it as it goes.
Nothing lasts forever. People, relationships, beliefs, things -- they all come into our lives when we need them. Letting them go with dignity and love is an art we can spend a lifetime mastering.