Letting Go: 09.16.2013

"What is it about us human beings that we can't let go of lost things?"

Leslie Marmon Silko from The Turquoise Ledge

All three of us, my sister, brother and I are named after St Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of finding things. There was so much invoking of his name growing up that St. Anthony started to feel like a long lost Uncle who lived far away but was present nonetheless. (A side note: If you were to gaze upon the dining room wall you would find family photos of my parents, brother, sister, grandparents, aunt, uncle, cousins and Pope John Paul the Second. We weren't blood related to the Pope, but his being Polish, Catholic and the first Polish-Catholic Pope was enough to earn him family wall status). St. Anthony was also 'in da house' in the form of statues, pictures and holy cards. The unshakable faith in his abilities to locate lost things never wavered. He always had our backs. Somewhere along the way, I graduated to a first name basis. Whenever I would lose something, I'd say this prayer:

Tony, Tony look around
The (name lost object) must be found
By (make a deadline: Friday, 2pm, one hour, immediately)
And I thank you in advance, Amen.

He never fails me. Before I adjusted the prayer with a time frame, I thought his powers were waning. But then I realized he was on Saint's Time, which is very different than Human Time. So it helps to be clear in the request. It is also imperative that you make an effort and still look for whatever is lost. You can't just pray and then kick back with a cuppa. It just doesn't work that way. I have friends who call me up when they lose something to say the prayer. I'm sure it would work fine if they said it, but perhaps they feel I have an 'in' because of the family connection.

I will be honest, I don't know how well it works for lost dreams, childhoods or loves. Finding the place where love soured, the gathering of instants that led to misunderstanding, the uncomfortable pile upon pile smothering the raw and real of the matter because it was just too intimately painful to look at...until the heat from this emotional compost pile erupts into flame, these things I do not have a Saint for. Finding keys, a parking spot, an apartment or job are better bets.

I remember the moment we said the final "D" word. We were in couples counseling and things had come to a head. It looked like there was no way out of the pile upon piles. We lost our way and took two different roads home. I had been holding on for so long, holding on to assuage my biggest fear, trying to keep the container from leaking, but just couldn't anymore. And when I loosened my grip, I watched in horror as it all slipped through the cracks.

We married in a redwood grove and part of the ceremony was a handfasting. Our hands together, as if in prayer, and a cord was tied around them. A simple knot, as if one were tying a shoelace.

Now as I tie this True Lover's Knot
You two are joined as one
Gentle are the bonds of this union
Pull one way and the bonds are strengthened
Pull the other and they are loosened 

The cord was lifted off of our hands and we kept it in a safe and special place at home. Even when we separated, I never lost track of it.

After we filed our papers for divorce, we chose a day to go back to the redwood grove with our dear friend who officiated the ceremony. There, we put our hands together once again. The cord was placed over them. Words were said and then the cord was untied and cut. Our spiritual bond severed, we buried each half in the grove.

That hot summer day in the shade of the redwoods was devastating. The kind where you can't breathe anymore, where you buckle to your knees and wonder if there is anything out there resembling a God, where you look around and what you thought was a trajectory of your life lays in a muddy puddle. All the hopes, ideas, dreams of what love is buried in the earth.

But time has a way of offering soft perspective on the hard edges of life. I didn't stop breathing. I do believe in something bigger than myself, call it God if you like, and the muddy puddle was one of my best teachers.

The truth of the matter is I never let go of the man I loved and married. I let go of the marriage, of that rendition of our relationship.  But never the love and affection. We are still friends today.