on releasing.
the end of a series that never fully was
I just got back from a brisk walk in the chilly air. I went on this walk after sitting in front of my computer for hours, growing angry and anxious with my inability to remember a word - a word! - that I’d intended to write about. It had been right there at my fingertips a few weeks before, and yet I’d pushed it aside and forgotten it, until I realized I actually still needed it and couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. Everything around and inside of me felt like it was falling apart. Over a word.
And that’s what it’s like to be a writer, I guess.
After twisting and turning in front of this screen, I wanted to scream…but I cried instead. Then, with my tear-soaked face, I went out into the cold. I walked. And then, I ran.
I hate running, but every once in a while I’ll push myself into it. I only do this so that I can focus on something new - the bitter air burning my lungs, my numbingly cold skin beneath thin leggings, the desire for it to be over already. Eventually, it thrusts me out of my meandering thoughts and into the present, which is all I ever really needed in the first place.
On this occasion, I also listened to a podcast with Anne Lamott, because I find it hard to listen to her for long without a little inspiration seeping in. Slowly, I felt my breath grow more steady, my mind more at peace, until there it was:
Release.
About 17 minutes in, the word hit me like a brick wall in the middle of my path.
I don’t know if it was the one I had lost, but it was certainly the one I was looking for.
The anxiety, the tears, the cold air, the physical escape from my own mental prison?
Release. Release. Release.
You see, I’m not good at letting go of things - especially when that thing is something I can’t seem to remember. It can be a word, an errand, a thought, a task I said I would do. Whatever it was, it’s gone, and it’s then that I find myself held by this ceaseless ache of longing for something I don’t even know.
It’s hard to get past. It’s hard to move forward.
Others would tell me to just let it go, but that means nothing to me. There is no letting it go. This “forgetful feeling,” as I’ve come to know it, is an obsession. And it builds and builds until eventually, it is either resolved or it explodes.
Whether it’s a big old ugly cry at the end of a long day or a painful run in the cold air, a physical, mental, or emotional release is the only thing that cures it. Only then can life begin again.
This all started because, over the last few weeks and months, I found myself in the habit of writing posts like “on fear,” “on gratitude,” “on hope,” and “on taking a day off.” There are probably 7 such drafts sitting in a folder right now. I only ever posted 2 of them. And that’s because, as time moved on, the words I’d pre-written didn’t feel as relevant anymore. But because they were sitting there, unfinished, I was stuck. I had to complete them, or else, but I didn’t know how. Something still had to be said, and that’s where the missing word came to play.
Except what I realized in my walk is that - when something’s not working, when the word’s not coming to you - all you really need is the permission to release it. Give it your all, and then let it go. Let yourself be who you are. Have a good cry, feel stupid for a minute, and move on. There’s no point in obsessing over something that wasn’t meant to be.
You see, I don’t need to keep writing “on ____” posts. They’re not for this moment. What is for this moment is being present in the holiday season and moving into some big news for next year, which I will hopefully find the proper words for soon.
So I’m sitting here now, typing vigorously, just trying to get it all out. To find my release in writing about the permission to release. I’m actually rather impressed by my body’s subconscious knowing of how to get itself back on track - how good it feels to be refreshed by the cold chill that remains on my cheeks, to move, to push, to release, to uncover and return to myself in this moment.
This so-called “series” began with fear. And fear will always be there. (So will my forgetful feelings.) Life will never be perfect, and I will never be perfect or without complaint. But again and again, I will seek this thrilling electricity of release. Release of expectations. Release of plans that don’t fit. Release of the old, release towards the new.
It’s a beautiful thing to anticipate, actually, now that I’ve come to understand it.