The Art of Letting Go.
‘Let go! I’m here! I got you! I can catch you!’
I caught sight of the piercing golden-brown eyes looking into mine, intently. I saw the visage that comes with the eyes. Short. Stocky. A little bulky, maybe. But muscle? Or fat? Who cares? I’ve got death distracting me. I pulled myself away from those eyes to look behind him. Beside him. Around him. A short projection of rock and about one foot space for me to land. I was stuck between two rocks I just build a bridge with (out of fear, if nothing else) and the floor looked miles away. And all I had was this human in blue, with absolute confidence in his abilities and my absolute lack of faith in mine. If you’ve ever heard of the phrase ‘caught between hell and high seas’, I can tell you I’ve lived that phrase.
I spent the first half of this weekend’s Saturday trekking with Arun Vasireddy, an ecologist or a programmer or a rock-enthusiast, call him what you may, and a bunch of other dorks from my local Write Club. How can a group of writers suddenly take to Mother Earth, is a question that baffled me throughout the half. And take to it, how. We climbed down rocks jutting ten feet high in the air, crawled through crevices a foot or half wide (I fit! I fit!), had leeches crawl over our bodies (and hair) and got our pants torn in a non-sexy way. Heck, we spent an hour observing two peacocks do their majestic dance in the rain, trying to woo this pricey, high maintenance pea-hen and we talked and we talked and we talked. But, the elephant in the room, or the bat in the cave, was my fear of letting go. And I never just could.
‘Jump! It’s just a few feet away! You can see it. You know you got this.’
’It could be my weight. I do weigh a ton. Or it could be my ADHD acting up and not allowing me to focus on where my feet went or my hands went or my elbows (actually, I had a feeling I had no control of my limbs whatsoever). It could be my shoes that I’d spent my first kidney on that proved to be infinitely useless while jumping rocks. It could be the lack of sleep from the night before or the extra room-temperature beer I’d sipped on before starting the trek. I had a list of excuses for why I was scared of letting go, of the rock I was clinging onto, and trusting my trek-leader. But the main reason was my reluctance to let anyone take control of my life. The main reason, to this hour, remains my zero faith in humanity, the lack of trust in any person to take control of my life and let me believe things will work out. And I pondered for a good two days about this before setting pen to paper. Or my fingers to this typing board.
‘It will hurt, I won’t lie. You’ll get a scratch or two. Maybe a sprain. But you won’t die.’
I drive my own vehicle, like a maniac, at excessive speeds, but I let no man, no woman, take the handle bar without much protest. After which, I proceed to control them with my hands and my words. Why? And when did I fail to crystallize this thought, as a possible explanation from my short relationships with inadequate men.
Is there a fine line between giving up and letting go?
When you decide to ‘take the plunge’ with the man of your dreams, are you giving up or are you letting go? (My best friend’s on the verge of kicking the matrimonial bucket, so forgive this line, if you may). At what point of time, do you decide you aren’t capable of making some choices and to trust in some person who can? What qualifications should this person possess?
‘I know every rock, every plant, every bird here. You think I’d let any thing hurt you?’
Eventually, out of terror for never letting go and possibly dying in the cave (27 hours flashbacks), I did let go of my arms. I did get caught. I did get hoisted up and away to safety. I did survive, with torn skin to tell the tale. I did make it out of the entire four-hour escapade unscathed. With my spirits muffled, but positively undamaged. But now, after this ordeal, I’m thumb-tacked with this nagging query — Do I learn to place the steering wheel of my life in another person’s hands? Or do I just pick up new shoes and continue driving?
