For the longest time I’ve been scared.  I’ve had that chronic kinda stress that just became part of the background noise, that kind of heavy, oppressive noise that you eventually adapt to and treat as your environment.  It’s normal.  Again, my luck isn’t changing.  Nothing is changing but me.

I’ve had this metaphor before, but I’m remembering how to let go.  And in letting go I’m remembering an ultimate zen-ny, hippy crap truth: there is a situation and there are your feelings about it.  Nothing is really bad or good.  A lion eats a zebra, bad for the zebra?  Sort of. But if the lion didn’t, the zebras would overrun their environment and would doom themselves to starvation.  No, bad and good are feelings and judgments about a situation.  They aren’t the situation.

The hardest thing for me is letting go.  Paradoxically, this is the only way to really escape.  I remember these words now.  It is like I’m in a world of darkness, I can see nothing but my own body, and a rope that I’m clinging too.  The darkness looks encompassing, forbidding and endless below me.  But eventually, I just let go.  All anxiety drains away, all fears, everything that isn’t me.  You aren’t your emotions or your thoughts.  I slip closer to what I really am.  Letting go leaves only a few possibilities.  I will slam into something hard and painful.  I will slam into something after enough of a fall that it will kill me.  I will slam into something soft and safe.  I will not slam into anything and will be caught by some unseen predator in the darkness… or maybe an unseen hero.  Maybe I’ll find another rope, it doesn’t matter.  I let go.  And I become who I am.  Hanging to the rope was anathema.  Stress, anxiety, resultant health problems from the first two, a few grey hairs… that’s what comes from holding the rope.  But letting go, it no longer matters.  I’m free from those things.  I can enjoy the fall, the wind rushing by me, the sullen freedom, the lack of knowing what will happen as I plunge- and I find peace.

Let go of your rope, cikala hay.

If there’s some great manda, or some place where the dead go, some way for my old man to still get a message to me-I want it to be/believe it to be “everything will always and forever be ok”.  No matter what, even in death, it’ll be okay, son.  And it will be.  Whatever happens to me, financial ruin-pennilessness, bank account $0 or worse, I’ll be okay.  “I’m ruined/fucked/never going to make it” is a story.  But I have $20 to my name is a fact.  I can deal with facts.  And I will be okay.  No matter what.

Thanks dad.