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I hold tightly, so tightly, to some things. I squish them between my fingers until their very essence slips through. My grasp is tight and painful. These are my fears, my ego, my frustrations. I hold tight and don’t let anyone else hold them for me. They’re mine, all mine, not worth sharing.
Then, out of exhaustion, my grip releases some. My grasp opens. And those things fall in a heap at my feet. They are still mine, but now they’re shared with those who love them. With those who believe in me. With those who have earned and deserve my trust. And, in place of the “bad” things that I hold so tightly, I can grasp something new: hope.
I once heard an analogy about our hands. How we hold on to things and release them. I don’t remember the pretty details that made the story so touching. I don’t remember all the nuances of the reader. But, I do remember this: the harder we hold on to something, the harder it is to be changed. And, if we’re not willing to be changed, we have to be happy with who we are, right here, right now.
And I’m not. So, I have to let go, I have to release my grasp on all I think I know, all I think I am, all I think I should be. I have to relax my fingers and stop being so addicted to control. I have to let the things I hold so tightly to slip some, because that’s the only way my hands, my broken, tired, weary hands, can grasp something else. Something bigger. Something better. Something that is waiting for me, a little out of focus and fuzzy, just beyond my current grasp.