"We need in love only to practice letting go. For holding on comes easily, we don't need to learn it." - Ranier Marie Rilke
Life is temporary, and when we understand this, we can better practice letting go. Letting go is a critical spiritual practice that enables us to be intentional in where we place our time and energy, and to welcome change into our lives. There are things in life that no longer serve us where we can practice letting go – such as unhelpful habits or beliefs that keep us from fully living; painful feelings like resentment and fears that trap us; or relationships where we cannot be authentic.
Yet sometimes, we also need to let go of people and things that enrich us because trying to be in too many places interferes with maintaining a wholehearted presence in life. This letting go is a bittersweet loss even when it is time.
In the summer of 2007, I rented an apartment on Main Street in Margaretville, New York, on the top floor of what had been the Galli-Curci Theatre. The couple who owned it, David and Jonathon, had purchased it with plans to convert it into a movie theater to reinvigorate Main Street. They introduced me to a welcoming community of neighbors in Margaretville and nearby New Kingston Valley. The land's beauty, countless acres of protected watershed, captivated me.
Like many visitors to the Catskills, I imagined myself getting a place of my own as a getaway from the city. I had just begun to casually look at homes when my realtor, Annette, told me about a property in New Kingston Valley that was about to go up for sale. I was not looking to undertake building a house, but she suggested I just come to see it. When I stepped on the property, it was clear how special it was. Luis, its current owner, had built on it a large utility barn where he kept his tools. The property was four acres of gently sloping, southern-facing land overlooking a valley; the only structure within a 180-degree view was a pre-civil war farmhouse that had been converted into a studio for a local artist.
The following year, I spent hundreds of hours designing a house that, until then, I hadn't known existed inside my imagination. I later found an architect who was enthusiastic about the project and helped me bring my drawings to fruition. But the house was not meant to be after I met with several contractors who each had vague or wildly moving estimates of the cost prior to even putting a shovel in the ground.
As it turned out, not building on the land was perfect, enabling me to appreciate the land best. I converted the barn into a place to spend weekends, with electricity and a composting toilet but no running water. (There was an attempt to gather rainwater and pump it into the barn, but that project flopped after the first winter freeze.) The studio had a kitchenette, couch, and bed, and was virtually maintenance-free, other than the need to vaccum dead flies and potato bugs after the winter. I couldn't have enjoyed the land without Dalton, a friend who can fix anything and who helped me with any challenge that arose. My hospitable neighbors, Connie and Steven, invited me to fill my containers with pristine water from their cistern. They also welcomed me to use their guest house’s shower and to sleep over there whenever I wanted.
At the time of the barn conversion, I bought a 1965 30-foot renovated Airstream and placed it on the most elevated part of the land overlooking the valley. I set Adirondack chairs there and spent many hours looking out over the valley – in solitude and with friends. When alone, I brought a wonderful dog with behavioral challenges for companionship. He had been in the shelter for quite some time and then found committed owners. His owners were happy for him that he had the opportunity to enjoy the country.
It never occurred to me that I would ever let go of this slice of heaven that was a source of deep contentment.
Last summer, I realized it was time to practice letting go of the vintage Airstream after mice had claimed it over the winter. The process of letting go of it led to the question of whether it was time to say goodbye to the Catskills. The land still held a special place in my heart, but I wanted to spend more time in Brooklyn after moving to the West Coast. And, no longer accustomed to driving in New York, renting a car and driving from the city upstate was increasingly stressful.
The first time I imagined letting go of the land, I felt both resistance and a sense that it was right. I needed to go back and sleep there to ensure that this was best.
Transition is often processed one step at a time, with occasional leaps. Letting go involves waves of feeling, especially grief. We can't move on fully to new possibilities if we don't make room for sadness.
I just returned from visiting the land. There, I met with friends and a realtor. On the morning I left to return to Brooklyn, I knew I might never see this place again. The car loaded and barn locked, I made a last stop to visit the gravesite of my cat, Raj, which also holds some of my father's ashes. The grave is under a dying apple tree, whose branches arch over the memorial. The old apple tree is one of the first and last stops I make as a ritual on the land.
Even though I do not believe my father and Raj's essence remain on the land, I feel a tender connection to them and gratitude for their presence in my life when visiting. The old apple tree is the canopy of this sacred space, where I honor and reflect on loved ones who have enriched my life and are no longer here.
I can create this sacred space elsewhere, but it is still a letting go and a bittersweet goodbye. Having spent hundreds of hours sitting on an Adirondack chair overlooking the valley, I've internalized its beauty and peacefulness. I am grateful to the land for welcoming me, and that my time there created internal spaciousness and openness to new possibilities.