In August, I fell six feet from a play gym while leaning against an insecure beam to clip tree branches. Only a miracle protected me from being no more injured than two broken wrists and soft tissue damage to my right hand. Still, without hands, I had to let go. The metaphor of my injury – losing the use of my hands – fits so perfectly into the season of my life. In 2021 and 2022, I lost my career, my marriage, my two kids off to college, my next place of work destroyed in a fire, and in the middle of those losses, the use of both of my hands. In each of these, I had to “let go,” and in one of them, literally. Last month I began a series here, with the story of my six foot fall on “Letting Go.”
Currently, I’m drafting “Letting Go, Part 2: Life without Hands,” to describe the experience of literally letting go of everything, what it was like, and what I was learning from it. To do so takes some time, and I hope it will be ready in March. Meanwhile, I’ve been marveling over the preoccupations that began to capture my imagination during the pandemic. Should I be chilled or awed by the prophetic nature of some of my posts in the past couple of years, like this one, this one, this one, and, especially, at the start of 2022, this one.
Little did I know in January, 2022
quite how much “Hibernation” would mark my coming year. Here is a repost of this poem from a year
ago; then below the poem is a small sneak peek for the experience and the
lessons of “Letting Go.”
Hibernation
The creatures of fur follow the signs of Nature
We
creatures of skin run to and fro
no
matter Her works of beauty or terror
Snow
coming, forecasters warn
The
furs, ready, hibernate
The
skins, deaf, go about their day
All
afternoon, snow surprises
dumping,
dumping,
softly,
quietly,
deceptively
The
day still young
the
sky turns black
Snowflakes
stream,
glistening
the darkening sky
in
lights of white
haloed
in orange
Any
who slow themselves
who
sit
who
watch
fuse
with the flakes in stillness
5
am, calls go out
Schools
are closed
Businesses
are closed
Roads
are blocked
All
are snowed in
What
if calls come the night before?
Or
before quittin’ time the day before?
When
the creatures of fur,
with
no forecasters,
are
already nestled in hibernation?
says
the master,
“For My load is light, and My burden
is easy.”
Racing
about, we wonder how
Could
we hear the wisdom of the furs
who
follow the signs of Nature
and
work when it is time to work
play
when it is time to play
rest
when it is time to rest
and who know
there is a season for outings
and
a season for hibernation?
I
of skin,
used
to the race,
am
paralyzed, mute
Could
I learn from the furs?
Could I
learn
of
a time to speak,
a
time be silent,
a
time to walk,
a
time to rest,
and
a season
to hibernate?
I think this is precisely what I’m learning. Although August and September were hardly months for “Hibernation,” they were for me, when I could do little and go nowhere. It was like Life was saying Let Go and Hibernate, and while you do, you’ll reflect and learn the beauty of letting go. As a sneak preview, some of this is that I am not invincible; to have humility, gratitude, a gentle touch, and take nothing for granted; to forgive myself and release myself from others’ expectations; to slow down and let go!; and to build compassion and sensitivity for others in whatever limitations or trials they may have.
Letting Go:
