Somewhere early on in my life, a story was embedded in my subconscious, and it had to do with being resentful, feeling neglected and enraged. People controlled me, failed me, abandoned me.  I have perceived as being controlling  or dismissive have always sparked an almost obsessive rage in me. It was Mary Muncil, the minister who married Maria and I and my spiritual counselor and a good friend who was kind enough to tell me that I was sometimes stuck in this story, something of a victim and struggle story, and needed to let go of it if I wanted to have a spiritual life. Which I do.

I sputtered and fumed and circled around, and said I needed to understand it, and sometimes in life you have to fight, and I don’t know, and Mary leaned over and smiled and said, “all you need to do is let go of it and stop telling it.” And the realization just stunned me, and changed me, as I never saw it before. This week, someone I thought was controlling and dismissive sent me into one of my steaming and wounded states, and it was Mary again who caught this and reminded me that I was still telling that old story.

Go higher, she said. Just don’t tell that story, even to myself. Not even in the car or on a walk. And I could see that she was right. My anger had nothing to do with the person I was fussing over, and I let go of it.  And the things I was worried about just melted away.

The idea of spirituality, more relevant every day in America, I think, is not about finding absolute peace and calm. It’s about recognizing the parts of life and of us that keep us in places we don’t want to be. And resetting ourselves, stopping, recognizing our damaged parts. And letting go of those stories. I will never quit working on this. I am getting closer. I will never be done with it. That’s it, I think.