On Letting Go - and Holding On
The scary part about letting go is that things that used to matter so much just aren't that important anymore.
In the past, when I've gone to Monterey on vacation, part of the reason has been to go to the beach at Pajaro Dunes. When I was a kid, my grandmother rented a house there for a week, and my family and she would stay there all week and my grandfather would stay just for the weekends. When I think about it, I think she did it every year, but it was probably only three or four years. We would wake up very early, and she'd take us for walks on the beach in the fog at low tide to gather shells. One of the days we were there, my dad and my brother would take Grandma's Porsche (my dad was the only other person she would let drive it) to the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, and my mom, my grandmother, and I would take our car and go shopping in Carmel. We would always go to the Aquarium one day. Mostly, though, we would spend time together in the rented house and on the beach.
This year, I didn't go to that beach when I went to Monterey. I was sick, and the prospect of climbing up and over the dunes was too much for me. So I thought about it, and I realized it was okay. I didn't have to go. I have the memory of going there with my grandmother. I have an absolutely beautiful picture I took of the beach one year. The actual place wasn't that important.
I had the same sense of letting go on that trip that I've had paring down my house.
Because I was thinking about this entry, when I got dressed for Rosh Hashanah services, I put on a Star of David necklace that came from my grandmother. (I think I didn't get it until after she died, but I have the impression that she meant it for me, like maybe she intended to give it to me at a later date.) It's a small pendant on a very fine chain, and every once in a while during the service, I felt the chain brushing against my skin.
I've reclaimed other things of my grandmother's too. I dug out the quilt she made that used to be on the couch in the den in her house, and it's now the throw on my couch. I went to my mom's house and took two and then two more of my grandmother's photos.
I've been working on this entry off and on for so long that I have no idea where I was going with it or if I had more to say. What strikes me on rereading and trying to finally finish and post it is how, in the process of letting go, I've found things I already have that I want to hold onto.
In the past, when I've gone to Monterey on vacation, part of the reason has been to go to the beach at Pajaro Dunes. When I was a kid, my grandmother rented a house there for a week, and my family and she would stay there all week and my grandfather would stay just for the weekends. When I think about it, I think she did it every year, but it was probably only three or four years. We would wake up very early, and she'd take us for walks on the beach in the fog at low tide to gather shells. One of the days we were there, my dad and my brother would take Grandma's Porsche (my dad was the only other person she would let drive it) to the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, and my mom, my grandmother, and I would take our car and go shopping in Carmel. We would always go to the Aquarium one day. Mostly, though, we would spend time together in the rented house and on the beach.
This year, I didn't go to that beach when I went to Monterey. I was sick, and the prospect of climbing up and over the dunes was too much for me. So I thought about it, and I realized it was okay. I didn't have to go. I have the memory of going there with my grandmother. I have an absolutely beautiful picture I took of the beach one year. The actual place wasn't that important.
I had the same sense of letting go on that trip that I've had paring down my house.
Because I was thinking about this entry, when I got dressed for Rosh Hashanah services, I put on a Star of David necklace that came from my grandmother. (I think I didn't get it until after she died, but I have the impression that she meant it for me, like maybe she intended to give it to me at a later date.) It's a small pendant on a very fine chain, and every once in a while during the service, I felt the chain brushing against my skin.
I've reclaimed other things of my grandmother's too. I dug out the quilt she made that used to be on the couch in the den in her house, and it's now the throw on my couch. I went to my mom's house and took two and then two more of my grandmother's photos.
I've been working on this entry off and on for so long that I have no idea where I was going with it or if I had more to say. What strikes me on rereading and trying to finally finish and post it is how, in the process of letting go, I've found things I already have that I want to hold onto.