Moodily I stuff my mouth with one more piece of chocolate. Dark, luscious velvet smooths my palette, slides easily down my throat. When the last hint of sweetness is no more, I’m left hanging.
Slumping gloominess besets me this evening.
Nothing’s happened, nothing in particular. Nothing and everything has triggered this hollowness.
Sit down quietly on the couch, I counsel myself, be still. But sitting doesn’t turn off the internal prattle: Don’t forget to buy electricity. Don’t want to be caught in blackness now, do you? What was A’s sarcasm about this morning? He’s so slippery, so loud, so hurtful. Must call my mother before it’s too late. Suddenly piercing through the chatter, a bizarre thought takes hold of me with supple clarity.
“You know that feeling of euphoric release,” it says to me, “when after a period of constipation – even just a day – you finally are able to unclog the blockages and let go? You know that feeling of delicious release?”
“Yeeess, “I say suspiciously.
“Well that’s all that’s needed right now. Just let go.”
Oh no dammit, I think, not that puerile wisdom!
“Let go of what?” I demand.
“Everything. Nothing. The grey clouds. Just let it go.”
“No, no, no, nooooo,” I retort loudly, “fiddlesticks!”
“Yes, yes, yes, just let the bugaboos go.”
“The bugaboos, the goblins, monsters, vexations, discontents. Look from a different angle. Try it, you may surprise yourself.”
Letting go is not something I know how to do. When it happens, it does so spontaneously. I know it by a shifting stream of fresh thoughts. Somethings moved, eased the internal pressure. Relief softly fills me.