The Happiness of Letting Go
The other day I wrote about how I was stubbornly clinging to an irritation–stuck in a kind of perverted pride about how right I was in nursing it, how deserving I was of something better. You know the feeling. It’s a tightness, a self-righteous clinging, a stubborn defense of your thwarted dream as the only thing in the entire world that could possibly bring you satisfaction.
But in truth, it’s clinging to those thoughts and feelings that prevents you from being satisfied by anything else. One universal key for allowing happiness into your life is to begin with accepting what is before you. Not to fight it, or resist it, or to cry that things weren’t otherwise, but to allow yourself to accept what is.
Sometimes we make it so difficult, this letting go of our wanting something else. The feelings of disappointment, or resentment, or anger, or grief can be so very strong. But only unhappiness comes from comparing what is with a mental image of something else, and telling ourselves that our story is better.
As long as we’re focused on the story, we’re blocking our vision of what exists now, of the possibilities and gifts the infinite present always holds. By holding on to our story of how things could have been, or should be, we squeeze our perceptions down to a tiny sliver of reality, repeating to ourselves all the things that don’t match what we imagined would make us happy.
By holding a grudge against reality, we color it arid and mean. But genuine reality is neither. And if that’s how you see it, you haven’t quite opened your vision yet to all it has to offer. True acceptance isn’t grudging.
Okay, you say, I can see that. But how do you drop the story? Despite the pain it’s causing you, how do you let it go?
First of all you have to recognize that you’re telling yourself a story (Clue: If you’re upset, it’s a story.) and then make a choice to let it go. Here’s an image that works for me when I’m fighting to hold onto a story: I think of my story as a shiny, glistening wasp that I’m clenching tightly in my hand. As long as I hold it, it will sting me. But if I open my hand, it will fly away. It really is that easy. You simply see the possibility of freedom from pain and choose to walk through its door.
Next you change your physical state. You straighten your posture, let yourself breathe, take a good stretch, and tune in to what your senses are telling you. Then get yourself into motion. If you have been immobile, go for a walk. Do some physical work. Put on some upbeat music and dance.
If you were already engaged in physical action, let yourself sit quietly for a little bit, or lie down. Then begin describing in words to yourself what your senses are telling you. Describe what you’re seeing—the colors and textures and forms; describe what you’re hearing, and listen for the quietest, faintest sound. Pay attention to what your skin is feeling—to the temperature and movement of the air, to the weight of your clothing. Which muscles are tense? What odors or fragrances you can smell? What tastes and textures can you sense inside your mouth?
This little exercise—“Recognize, Choose and Act”—will give you immediate relief. Even when you’re in the throes of deepest grief, it will give you a moment of respite. And the more you practice it, the more powerful it becomes, and the more deeply it will carry you into the vastness of the eternal now—where all the genuine meaning and beauty and fun is, and the only place where your true power resides.
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