I was visited again recently with dreams of the dead. Once a rare thing, it's becoming more common for me. A result of getting older and facing my own mortality perhaps. Or maybe just a result of getting older and knowing more people who are dead, my own small army of ghost friends and family.
I always imagined Letting Go was one big moment when you were finally done with 'it' (whatever 'it' might be). You let go of the plate, the glass, the vase, and it falls to the floor to shatter. You let go of the horse's reins, and the horse gets to decide what to do, where to go. You let go of a love, a relationship, and it's still hovering about like it needs something else from you, like it hasn't already taken all that you have.
You Let Go, and you Let Go, you and Let Go in a never ending series of small movements toward the future, forever drifting outward but still somehow always within reach. Like Grief, it's never something that's complete, finished, over with. The intensity just fades into the background of the pressing needs of your current life.
Until it decides to punch you in the gut long after you thought it no longer had that kind of power.