Let It Go

Moving makes me hold each thing in my hands and ask if it comes with me. A box is honest that way. It only has so much room, so I have to decide, and deciding is a kind of facing. Not everything I own has given me the same weight of joy. Some of it I kept out of habit, not love.

So I sort. This stays, this goes. The hard part isn't the letting go, it's admitting what I never really used, the things I meant to and didn't, now going out the door. I look at them once more before they leave. I learn what they were trying to teach me. Even as the object goes, the lesson stays, and at that level nothing I release is wasted.

Then the room is lighter. Emptier, but lighter. What I carried forward, I chose on purpose, and the space I cleared is not loss, it's an opening. I don't need to know yet what fills it. Let it go. Something is already on its way.