I’ve been buried in work for the last three months. I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Yesterday was the anniversary of Ting’s death. At some point I’ll write about that experience. Of the sadness and grief, but also the awe of being a part of the passing, of watching my close companion leave this world on his own terms and in his own chosen time.
Thursday would have been my mother’s 93rd birthday. She died at the age of 91, and based on her constant lament that last year that she had been here too long and why couldn’t she just die, she lived a year longer than she wanted.
Observing the contrast of Ting choosing his time and my mother’s inability to let go is a lesson I still ponder. I look at the things in my apartment that I don’t use, the bad habits that I’m trying to change, and I think about this struggle in life to let go. To let go of the possessions, to let go of the beliefs that don’t serve me, to let go of the habits that tear me down instead of build me up.
All of this involves passing from one stage to another, whether it’s the biggest passing of all, or small passages that allow the release of the old to make room for the new. None of it is easy.