It is time.
You are ready. This time, you mean it. For real.
You are ready. You are shedding, dismantling, unbuckling, discarding: identities, accolades, glories, web stats, even your most treasured bio.
Impressive, glittery, sacred: past.
Scars, wounds, failures, shames, dents: they must go, too.
You unbuckle the past slowly, swearing to yourself, softly, repeatedly, “I am ready, I can do this” even as bits of you cling to your fingers.
Disrobe, unwind, unburden.
A pile of you forms on the shore of your future.
The water of the unknown laps at your feet, caresses your toes. So clean, so promising. You are almost naked, almost emptied, almost ready.
Then a thought: wouldn’t it be a good idea to hold on to just one wafer thin bit of you?
After all, like the Egyptian Pharaohs, you will need things on the other side. Maybe not 10,000 nubile slaves or a clay jar with your preserved heart in it but it shouldn’t hurt to take just one, or maybe five, of your degrees with you? Certainly the Oprah appearance would be useful. And being the youngest person in your organization to ever run a division, don’t leave that. And your divorce and bad investments and the semi-abusive relationship - you aren’t really ready to let go of those.
It would be silly to leave all of you. You might get cold. You take back more slivers of your identity from the pile. You worked so hard for them. Especially the stories that gouge and pinch and humiliate.
You put a few bits of you back on. Now you’re ready to dive in, the water looks so fine.
What’s this? You can’t swim. You can’t even float. You are sinking.
Your toes touch the soft, silted bottom. You panic, claw at the water but no matter. You don’t move, can’t move: sunk.
You know what you have to do. If you are honest, it is only because you will drown that you do so, but to your credit, you do it (many would rather drown). You cast away all of who you have been, these last most special and hurtful flecks, remembering, at the last moment to say thank you.
Thank you for it all.”
You find — you have no idea how — you can breathe underwater now. (Maybe it was the thank you?) You can’t see very far in front of you, only a few feet, so you move slowly, as if in a dream. Come to think of it, maybe this is a dream and, any moment, you will wake up. You will be who you are, or were, or always thought you should be. You fantasize about how good that will feel, the known!, and then, shit!
You are smack, stuck, back on the bottom, in the gloom. Unable to move, although thankfully, still, able to breathe.
You sigh and watch the bubbles streak upwards. It seems that holding on to anything here does not serve.
You concentrate on the feeling of the water passing over your skin, on the cerulean blue patch right in front of you, on the rise and fall of your chest.
You take a tentative breaststroke forward. And then another.
19 responses so far ↓
1 Tweets that mention A Pile of You » Comfort Queen -- Topsy.com Aug 10, 2010
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Jennifer Louden, Amy Oscar. Amy Oscar said: RT @jenlouden: A Pile of You: It is time. You are ready. This time, you mean it. For real. You are ready… http://goo.gl/fb/YoQPR [...]
2 Mahala Mazerov Aug 10, 2010
Breathtaking.
You know, *this* could take the place of your Most Treasured Bio. It’s all you, Jen, dear.
3 Jessica Aug 10, 2010
This is superb. I love it.
4 Hiro Boga Aug 10, 2010
Oh, Jen, the You you’re becoming moves me so.
Thank you for this gorgeously written pool of wisdom.
Love, Hiro
5 Miriam Dyak Aug 10, 2010
Hiro,
Thanks so much for turning me onto this post! Really wonderful… and useful. We’re all going to need to learn how to breathe and swim down there.
Miriam
6 char brooks Aug 11, 2010
I can see you swiming, floating, moving through whatever you call it – you’ve done a great job of describing the experience.
Thank you for this piece of wisdom and strength.
7 Linda Aug 11, 2010
I love this very wise piece of writing. It exactly describes the fears of letting go…but more importantly the necessity of doing so. Thank you for this lovely and timely reminder.
8 Susan Gallacher-Turner Aug 11, 2010
Tears in my eyes…nodding my head. I’m with you all the way down there and one thing, I know, you will make it, you will ‘resurface’ on the shore, one breast stroke at a time.
Interesting that you chose the ‘breast stroke’ to move forward with…purpose or coincidence?
9 Jennifer Aug 11, 2010
Breast-stroke – just what came.
And what’s fascinating is what’s coming is… nothing. It’s time to be still and be with myself. To bite through to simple being. Wow. Pray for me!
and thank you thank you for your kind words
10 Linda Smith Aug 11, 2010
Thank you, it is time, and I am scared.
11 Katie Hart Aug 12, 2010
That was really beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
12 Andrew Lightheart Aug 12, 2010
Oh Jen.
This refreshes a longing in me.
Leaves me longing. And refreshed.
Thank you.
Sending some heart-ness. x
13 LaVonne Ellis Aug 12, 2010
Wow. Gorgeous. I want to write like you. But I can’t. I have to write like me. Thank goodness I get to read what you write.
14 Maribeth Aug 12, 2010
Beautiful Jen! When I think of breast stroke, I think of heart swimming because you’re leading with your heart. You’re doing it Babe! You’re doing it and bless you for sharing it with us ♥
15 Natalie Peluso Aug 12, 2010
Thank you Jen so much. Magical.
16 Jennifer Aug 13, 2010
I truly deeply madly appreciate sharing this weird wild essential journey with you.
17 Kari Henley: Can’t Take a Vacation? Make Your Own Retreat « Read NEWS Aug 15, 2010
[...] Taking a retreat is not always easy — just being with ourselves? Scary. Jennifer Louden, best selling author of the “Women Comfort Book” series, recognized she had to escape the rat race to THINK, and decided to take a month-long retreat from the world this summer: no emails, texting, Facebook or checking in. She felt she had to step away from daily obligations in order to access the deeper contemplative tools needed to move from one project to the next. She captures the fear of letting go beautifully in this post from afar, called “A Pile of You.” [...]
18 The 1st Fruit of my Sabbatical – Come Taste! » Comfort Queen Sep 9, 2010
[...] Links: Susan’s post on Am I Buddhist?, Four Years. Go. Letting go of who I have been. [...]
19 Emily Sapp Dec 21, 2010
I’m so thankful for all your best of 2010 posts this morning, but this one in particular. I’m feeling pulled to shed a lot this month. Eliminating my personal blog and the identity I’ve created for my business after six long hard years and reverting to just being Emily. It feels completely right even though I don’t exactly know what the next me will be. Part of me is saying I should know what I’m doing next before I kill the last thing, but my heart tells me I need to let it go before I can move on. This was beautiful and poetic and perfect. Thank you.