I’ve been thinking a fair bit lately about letting go. My husband and I have been clearing out, prompted by the fact that we had some decorating done. It was a bit like moving house, utterly exhausting with all the packing up, shifting stuff up and down the stairs, and unpacking again. Before putting things back we decided it would be best to take the opportunity to move a bit nearer to our goal of living with just what we need and/or love. When it comes to the latter, we gently challenge each other: Do I really need this? Am I just hanging onto a ‘thing’ when I already have the memory? Would it be better to offer this to one of our offspring?
The whole idea is that we don’t leave them with a gargantuan task after our demise – trying to sift through our memories, which are not theirs.
Some of my things once belonged either to my mother (as in a 1940s occasional table) or father (a 1930s clock, and a later, possibly 1960s barometer that was handed to my brother, then to me after his death). I am holding onto these things for now, but then there are the books.
I have recently managed to considerably reduce my non-fiction books, but I still have my mother’s old What Katy Did at School with its copper plate illustrations, and my dad’s Sunday school prize of the eternally depressing The Pilgrim’s Progress, which I read as a child and have not opened since. Do I just give it to charity? I suspect that is where it will end up. It’s a thing, not my dad. He lives in my heart, in my garden, and in the love I feel for my family. No one can take that away from me. At least, that’s what I tell myself. My mum’s book is different – I adored reading that as a child, and even though the pages are falling out I still lovingly run my fingers over those shiny black and white illustrations, recalling the awe with which I read about girls that went to boarding school. I think the fascination with boarding school, even though it was a world apart from my working-class upbringing, was the same as the fascination the Harry Potter books have today for children – it is a world in which parents do not feature – a world of children, and the occasional authoritarian adult who is the obstacle in the way of them achieving their goal. As with all good stories, such obstacles can be overcome, whereas the power of the parent is absolute.
I recently turned seventy-one. As I have previously mentioned, I have been suffering from chronic fatigue since October. I have thought a lot about how to answer oft-asked the question: ‘How did it start?’ I have come to the conclusion that it was probably, as with the chronic fatigue I suffered from 1988 to 1990 (roughly two and a half years), a virus that opportunistically hijacked my immune system because of a devastating event that caused an unusually high level of stress. In 1988, this was due to the break-up in 1987 of a relationship, just a couple of months before we were due to be married (I had the dress, we had the venue, invitations had been issued). In 2022 when the current fatigue started, I had just arrived in New Zealand after a stressful journey and finally got to hug my daughter and her little family, after two and three-quarters years. This long separation was, of course, due to the closure of the New Zealand borders associated with covid. Ironically, all the time I was keeping my stress levels under wraps I did not become ill – a bit like teachers at the end of term, it was only when the stress was over that the floodgates opened.
What I have to let go of here, is the expectation that I will be able to return to normal energy levels. At my age, in fact, most people are far less active than me. I don’t look ill (at its height, I did – dark rings, the works). I just get easily fatigued, and sleep a lot. Maybe I can improve my energy levels, but I am in my seventies. I should accept ageing gracefully. I have not. I still have to learn that lesson.
Recently, I visited Poland to teach Dance Movement Therapy, an area of my work I love and have yet to let go of. I was concerned about how I would cope, but adrenaline and caffeine kept me going, and I was on a high on my return. Then came the collapse. Another stressful incident on the day after my midnight return (1 am European time, having been up since 6.30 am and taught a full day, then caught two flights home), and I crashed completely. I am still recovering. I have been home for a week. I had been boasting to my GP that my energy levels were improving, but this week I have been back to trudging around like a member of Shackleton’s team on a bad day. I wake tired, yawn all morning, long to climb into bed again and do, immediately after lunch. Hopefully, this is just a blip.
I’m about to let go of my insistence that I must manage my osteoporosis without drugs. Having been diagnosed with osteoporosis in 2010, thirteen years ago, and osteoarthritis in 2016, I am now on a surgery list for a total right hip replacement to ease the arthritic pain (it will probably not happen for a year). One of the risks of that surgery is a hip fracture. I figure it is time to give myself the best chance of reducing that risk. Time to bite the bullet and take the drugs that will strengthen my bones.
Back to books. Some of my books were given to me by friends who I’ve lost to early deaths or lost touch with. One very dear friend of over forty years died recently. He and his wife bought me some Celtic design earrings as a wedding present, thirty-one years ago. I have a terrible record with jewellery – so many times, I have lost one of a pair of earrings. So far, I still have that pair, but they have just got more precious.
Of course, when I die I will take nothing with me. Eventually, I have to let go of absolutely everything. I’m getting into practice. That might sound morbid but, as Alan Watts says in The Wisdom of Insecurity (1974, London: Rider), life is ‘a flowing process, change and death are its necessary parts. To work for their exclusion is to work against life’ (p. 30).
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
ramblings 