So much of loving is just letting go

Where I've been, where I am, where I will be.

Two Tuesdays ago my lovely friend Alana came over to pick-up the clothes I was donating to Everlasting, a charity she works closely with. It’s been a long time coming, this little day date of ours. I had been slowly decluttering my closet, ridding myself of excess stuff so that they may also finally stop living rent free in my mind. Lately I’ve been thinking about my stuff just sitting there. How much stuff I have. How much of my free time is spent cleaning or tidying or thinking about it. How much energy I spend on having stuff. How little stuff I needed when I was in New York, I couldn’t afford to buy stuff and I wore mostly the same clothes. I used the same skincare and makeup for months. I had only packed about five percent of the stuff I owned. But I didn’t feel the need for a lot of stuff. Those three months was some the happiest I’d ever been, joy I had never really felt to that extent. The kind that is only felt when you’re right in the middle of a dream come true.

I had been saving these up for her especially, in suitcases sitting idle in my office for months. Even neatly folded and tucked away in those suitcases, I could feel their presence constantly hovering over me. My favourite way of expressing myself is through clothes, and those suitcases felt like a graveyard of all the people I’ve been, in the form of clothes I had once loved and felt like the best expression of me. I couldn’t wait to let go of them and have it not just out sight and out of mind but physically out of my space. I couldn’t even remember what was in there anymore.

She took these photos of me. I made us pasta for lunch. A spaghetti all’Amatriciana that’s a solid staple in my rotation of beloved recipes. We sat in my messy dining table and talked over pasta with delicate dustings of cheese and a ginger beer concoction that was as delicious as a cocktail without the alcohol. I’m always so delighted when my friends enjoy my cooking. As though they could feel every ounce of love I put into it. Lunch took a little longer than I thought, perhaps I was subconsciously procrastinating parting with my stuff. Even though I was the one who wanted them gone immediately. Even though I said I wanted to let go and create the space.

The suitcases were opened, the bags were ready, and as Alana got started on unpacking them I opened my coat closest, the one I haven’t seen the insides of in months because I’m so overwhelmed by the mess and the way it’s been a dumping ground of stuff that I have no homes for. But I knew I had coats and suits and more stuff that I haven’t worn in a while and never will again. We had a little system going — she would hold up a piece from the suitcase and I would hand her a piece from the closet that I was deciding on the spot whether to keep or not. Decisiveness, no ‘maybes’, and definitely no sitting there for months in purgatory.

As we went through this process, the memories started flooding back in. All the stories behind these clothes, the moment I got them, the times I wore them, the joy they brought me, the person I was in them. My friends know I have excellent memory that can sometimes turn into creepy category (“wait how did you know that?” they’d ask me, and I would recount when and where they’ve shared this with me before. Yeah. I always remember) and as I watched Alana fold my clothes up one by one and carefully pack them in giant black bags to take them to their next destination, I realised something:

So much of loving is just letting go.

I love my clothes, I love the versions of me who lived in them, I love how wearing them made me feel and the memories attached to them. And that’s precisely why I’m letting them go. Because I love them and I want them to go to good homes and be worn and not just sit inside a suitcase. I love them and I want them to go to this particular charity because of the impact of what donating these clothes mean. I love them but they no longer make me feel expansive and wonderful and like I can take on the world draped in their beautiful fabric. I love them but holding on only keeps us both in stagnant energy. I love them and I want to make space for all the people I have yet to be.

So much of loving is just letting go.

*

That same week I turned up to my darling friend Kylee’s place, the one we’ve slowly started building memories in, hands shaking, tears threatening to fall in the few steps it took to get from the Uber to his building’s reception. Kylee and I’s story began in what we could only describe as a fated encounter a few months ago. We sat next to each other on the plane on our way to an overseas brand trip and quickly discovered we both picked these seats because we liked sitting in the same area when flying. We’ve been friends ever since, the depth of our friendship and connection reminds me of the reason why people say time is a construct.

Just before I got there, I was at an event where they generously gave us the opportunity to make our own perfume. I picked a citrus top note, a more woods-y heart note, and an unexpected cashmere for the base note. If I’m honest I’m not quite sure what they all meant, but the blend is the most intoxicating scent I’ve ever smelt. Probably because I chose it. I mean, I had no idea if they would all mix well together but I trusted in the process. They asked me for a name for the perfume to go on the label right then and there so I couldn’t overthink this time.

“Let’s call it ‘For the Plot’”, I told them. It wasn’t until now that I understood how fitting that was. It was the perfect scent for that feeling, that expression. Fresh, sensual, comforting. The kind of scent you’d want to spritz on a first date or a lazy Sunday morning. As I was leaving, one of the ladies from the perfumery told me mine was still her favourite name of the night. A scent for when you’re doing things for the plot.

Back at Kylee’s, we ate fried chicken for dinner and he topped up my glass with water from the tap throughout the evening. I was parched. I told him before that I wasn’t hungry and because the universe has a funny sense of humour, when our order arrived, mine came sans the fried chicken I said I didn’t want but my grumbling tummy paired with the calmness I was starting to feel indicated otherwise. Kylee air fried some chicken for me that tasted exactly like the chicken I ordered but never got. I drank more glasses of water than I can count. We talked and talked and talked. For someone with excellent memory, I can’t tell you exactly what we spoke about, just that it felt like I was exactly where I needed to be (we definitely talked about Beyonce). We covered a lot of ground. I made him smell ‘For the Plot’ and he agreed it smelt exactly like me if I were a perfume. Kylee’s friendship feels exactly like listening to the best meditation music where you feel expansive and held and that everything isn’t just possible, but will be miraculous.

I made my way home just after midnight. For one of the busiest areas in the city, the streets were quiet and calm. I sat in the back and looked out the window, past the street lights and blur of buildings and houses then uncharacteristically took out the perfume and sprayed it on me. My first spray. It felt like a waste of every precious drop because I was going to shower and wash my hair and scrub the smell off me as soon as I get home anyway. Maybe that’s why some people don’t like buying fresh flowers, because they die anyway so what’s the point? Maybe it’s the same reason why we enjoy songs and concerts and books even though endings were inevitable anyway.

I smelt like me and I smelt like the plot wasn’t exactly what I had hoped it would be right now but I was trusting in the twist and thickenings. My god, so much of loving is just letting go. So much of living lies in detaching.

*

Lately I’ve been noticing that even when I’m relaxing my hands stay in fist form. That even while I sit in bed and let my shoulders fall and my stomach drop, at least one hand remain in that position. Even in stillness I am gripping tightly, afraid of opening up and afraid of what may slip through my fingers.

*

I quietly turned 33 a few Sundays ago. I was excited at the thought of my birthday being a magic number in the same way I think 11:11 is magical and the fact that it was happening on a Sunday — my favourite day of the week — this year felt good. But my day came and went without fanfare. It was simple, I didn’t really do much, didn’t even get myself a birthday gift. A dear friend sent me the loveliest happy birthday text and mentioned how she knows that every year I write myself a love letter and I share it online. I haven’t even done that yet. My favourite birthday tradition. I think that says a lot about how I’ve been feeling lately. I ushered in 33 but it didn’t feel like a hello but more of a goodbye.

The day after my birthday I had lunch with Simon, one of my absolute best friends, and I came home to treats from friends waiting for me in the kitchen. Flowers, champagne, cupcakes, more flowers, candles, the most beautiful love notes accompanying them. It made me think about how often I tell the people I love that I love them. How loudly I celebrate them. And how kind of a gesture that was. I have been rereading the kind notes sent to me on my birthday. Sometimes we just need to see ourselves through the eyes of people who love us.

All the birthday flowers lived in my room while they were alive. They sat on the floor opposite my bed, in vases I’ve collected over the years. I wanted to see them as soon as I woke up. But I also had to put them there away from my cats because some of them were toxic to cats in varying degrees. I kept my door closed and ignored one of my cats, Chelsie, scratching the door, asking to be let in, until she eventually stopped. I missed cuddling her in bed and letting her flop and ask for pats while I was journaling or scrolling my phone but I wanted to be around my flowers too until they started rotting one by one.

I was worried she’d stop wanting to try and get in. Even when I left the door slightly ajar, she would stay firmly on the otherside, peeking but not daring to go in. It broke my heart everytime. I knew she wanted love and affection and I wanted so badly to have her by my side again. I could see the look of excitement on her face when I leave the room, when I pet her from her bed instead of mine. I was so afraid she would never want to come back in.

The flowers started rotting one by one. Leaves dried and fell in the carpet, the water turned murky, and I am embarrassed to admit how long I’ve just left them there rotting instead of throwing them away. I wanted to make it last. I wanted to enjoy it for just another day until I couldn’t.

I finally threw them away last Sunday evening. I double sealed the rubbish bag so no cats nor particle can get into it. I vacuumed, scrubbed the walls, wiped every surface and did that again until any trace of it was gone. The wall was just a plain wall again, unadorned by the flowers from the people I love. I kept the window open to let the cool air purify the room. I took a shower and scrubbed myself clean.

I opened the door as wide as I can and called out Chelsie’s name. The thing about my cats is that because they are shelter cats, it takes a lot to earn their trust. They have been abandoned and carry so much trauma so I wasn’t hopeful that she’d feel safe enough to come in again. But as I called out her name for the second time, I heard her run frantically up the stairs. She stopped in the doorway and looked at me. “Come here baby,” I motioned to the bed in the way I usually do when I invite her to come up, “it's safe again. Come.”

She jumped without hesitation and was excitedly flopping around as if she never left, purring loudly and adamant that she be cuddled and be given lots of pats. It was as if that door was never shut.

*

If you follow astrology like I do, you’ll know that the Cardinal signs (us Libras, Aries, Cancer, and Capricorn) are closing out a 16 year karmic cycle this month. The theme according to the cosmos is that of death and rebirth.

I am right smack in the middle of transformation. Of a transition from an outdated version of me to someone not quite known to me yet. Expansion is painful. The stretch in order expand and hold shape is testing. All my shadows are coming out of the surface demanding to be felt and dealt with so they may be transmuted. So that the energy can be renewed. In this current season that looks like love and death before the renaissance. It is not where I want to be but it is where I am.

So much is changing. So much is flowing. I am sometimes against the current. So much is being renewed. I feel there’s a clearing somewhere nearby but I have to let go in order to reach it.

So much of loving is just letting go.