Why does letting go feel so good?
Because I’m holding on to falsehoods and untruths.
The more relief I feel, the better this world looks to me. I could even end up liking this place.
I took the holy men seriously when they said a pilgrimage to some sacred space will do you no good if you cannot find holiness at home.
But home itself is more about the story you tell than any physical locale.
Everything around you can be seen from infinite different angles and endless new contexts. “Here” is all in how you choose to see it.
Why do we love holidays if not for the break we take from our own story? We see someone else’s home with a stranger’s vantage. We give it the benefit of the doubt.
My relief at letting go is so palpable, can I not bring this home? Be the same person with a new mind; pause the story and put it on hiatus til the new chapters come to me.
If I were a character this part of my arc would be a mysterious journey in the mountains with some monkish mentor, resulting in transformative self-discovery.
I’ll make do sitting under a tree while a gardener meanders by, leaf-blower buzzing, filling the air with two-stroke fumes.
You can hear a sutra in it, the guttural drone of Tibetan lamas. It’s the right pitch and harmonics abound within it.