Holding On, Letting Go
On Memory, Grief, and Releasing Even the Sweetest Love
Since arriving in Bulgaria after a long sabbatical, I have been revisiting memories from the past through photo albums, people’s stories, and familiar places. One of the places that held many memories for me was the cabin my parents built when I was younger. My father loved it and spent every opportunity he had there. During my first 15 years, I went there each summer, eager at first but increasingly reluctant. I wanted to be in the city with all my friends instead of “meditating” in the hammock. Then, my parents divorced, and I stopped going there. Now that my parents have both departed this earth, I decided to visit although it took me three months being here to get there. This past weekend, my aunt suggested we jump in the car and drive there. On the way while gazing through the car window, emotions welled up, but I still held it together. Once in the village, I felt how the place had lost its energy, its quiet charm.. The downtown shop was shut down. The river where we swam and fished was completely dried out. There was no soul walking around. The school I remembered for young delinquents was closed, but the good news is that it has transformed into an international art retreat during the summer months. I was eager to walk on the familiar path and get to the cabin, and even though I didn’t ask my uncle to give me the key, I wanted to see the place from the outside. On the path through the forest, we met a woman who seemed very protective of her territory and said if we continue on this path, we will walk into her property, and her dog might attack us. She softened once we told her my relationship to the place. Once there, I was shocked by the looks of the grounds and the cabin. I remember the wood planks being shiny cedar that now turned into chocolate brown. The porch fence sagged, the grounds overgrown—its serenity long gone. Everything felt old and broken. I struggled to overlay my old vision on each corner and nook. Peeking through the window, I saw a hat on the table that my father left the last time he was there. I wondered when was his last time in his favorite place. The neighbor’s cabin had different owners, not the ones I grew up with. Once back in the center of the village, I walked up the hill and was touched by the size of the church. That was the biggest and most maintained building in the village. There is a saying that a town’s energy is determined by its biggest structure. The church and the art retreat initiative were the last rays of hope for this place. Then, we left. Shortly afterwards, a potent feeling of being complete in my mission in Bulgaria moved through my awareness. The next day, I had coaching in the evening, and while someone else was healing an unrelated upset, I felt tears welling up, heaviness in my body, and emotions fueling up. The sadness I held in the day before showed up to be resolved. My coach noticed, and as I shared, I realized I was grieving not just my parents—but their good versions I was clinging to. I was holding onto the good memories so tightly like love will never reach me again. When he said that we also have to learn to release the light and loving memories, I struggled and cried like a baby. By clutching past love, I unknowingly blocked the flow of love in the present. Love is never wasted or lost, yet it asks us not to cling. We are asked to let go of everything—even what is most precious—so love can keep flowing. I am still upheaving, but I know this release was necessary to move forward. Perhaps love’s greatest teaching is this: it asks us to cherish, and then to release, so it can keep finding us anew.
What love or memory are you holding tightly to? And what might open if you allowed it to flow into the present?
