Let It Be . . .

I'm not a tattoo person.  I don't like the look of dark ink on light skin, don't like large images covering arms and legs, don't like the snap judgements that, unfortunately, pop into my head when I see a heavily-tattooed person. I know, I know . . . this is one of those prejudices I need to work on.  Two of my daughters have tattoos -- mostly tasteful -- and I wouldn't want someone making snap judgements about them, so I'm working on that. I'm working toward an attitude of acceptance of other people's choices regarding their own bodies; but still, this probably won't be a choice I'll make for myself.


The other day, however, I was in the grocery store checkout line, and noticed that my cashier had a tattoo on her inner wrist.  In beautiful calligraphy, it read, "Grace."  My oldest daughter also has an inner-wrist tattoo: hers reads "Anima Bella."


And I've decided that I like the placement of these tattoos as much as what they say.  Semi-private, they aren't as obvious as large tattoo "sleeves," but they aren't hidden away for only a lover's eyes, either. They seem very personal to me, more meant for the bearer's eyes than for the observer's. One could quietly flip her wrist to read what's written there, then flip it back to be concealed.


Although I won't be visiting the tattoo parlor anytime soon - or ever - I know what I'd like my wrist tattoo to be.  One simple line, from the Bible -- or the Beatles, depending on your perspective:  "Let It Be."  Though I know that the reference to "Mother Mary" in the Beatles' song could have another meaning, I prefer to think of it as the real Mother Mary, the one who's been my guide since my horse wreck when I was fourteen years old.  Her response to Gabriel's message regarding the birth of Jesus models the kind of courage and faith I can only hope to emulate at some point in my journey through life:  "Let it be done to me according to His will."

"Let it be done to me."  Not -- "let me do this."  Not -- "let me tell you how this should go."  Not -- "let me alone to live my own life."

Right now, it's August - prime time for me to practice this philosophy, which happens to be the most difficult one of my life.  For the last eight months, I've been struggling with "let it be" through a year of disappointment and heartbreak, but also great opportunity and achievement. Now, in August, as our drought progresses, our summer busy-ness continues, and our fears are high and hopes even higher, I need most to remember to trust and "let it be." 

Through my life, this has been the idea that I fight the most strongly against, resist with the most tenacity, accept the most sorrowfully.  In younger years, I thought "let it be" meant to give up, to become apathetic, to quit caring so much. A control freak -- out of both intense love and extreme ego -- the idea of letting go and letting life take its natural course was anathema.  A little older now, I realize "let it be" means one can still care a lot, but one has to let go of the outcome. It means to give everything you have, then trust that there's a better plan than the one in your head.

Those words are relatively easy to write, and next to impossible, for me at least, to live. So perhaps a tattoo of those words on my wrist, where I can look quickly as I take a deep breath, would help me remember that I don't have to control everything . . . that I couldn't, anyway.

I can almost hear Mary gently reminding me:

Your ideal job has turned out to be a lot of drudgery? Take a deep breath, look at the rewards, and let it be. Do your work well, until another opportunity comes along.

The manuscript you've worked on so long comes back returned?  Breathe, cry, let it be -- and then send it out again.
 
The money you hoped to earn turns out to be far less than expected? Let it be; there's no changing the situation now. Look to the future, peer closely at your spending, and change what you can.
 
The relationship breaks, and nothing you do can fix it? Honor your pain. Mourning takes time.  Once you've done that, let it be -- and let it go. Something else will come along, though there is no guarantee of when. You deserve happiness, even if you need to find it alone first.

The project you've spend months on, the one you've poured your soul into, flops?  Cry, mourn, grieve . . . and then let it be.  Trust that the lessons you've learned will serve you in the future; trust that no creative effort happens in vain.

Your adult child makes choices that go against your values? Your heart breaks every time you think of her, every time you miss him? If you raised him well, gave her love and attention and support, then take a deep breath and let it be; pray for acceptance, peace and love. Pray mostly that you will be able to hold him again, that you will rejoice at their happiness one day.


There is a flower bed outside my bedroom window shows that it's August, the month of full-bloom summer and the beginning of dying-back autumn.  In one small bed, I see all stages of the life cycle: the flower buds of new galliardia, the smiling yellow blooms of black-eyed Susan, the dying-away seed heads of echinachea.  Because of both the drought and my extended absence a week ago, one of the echinachea looks to be completely dead. In my efforts to have nice-looking flower beds, I'm tempted to pull them all up, or at least to dead-head it to remove the faded blooms. But I know that if I pull up the brown stalks, I'll dislodge the living plant. If I deadhead the wilted flowers, the seeds will not drop and spread.  I'd like the plant, and the entire stand of echinachea to become fuller next year, so I let it be.  The seeds will be scattered on the soil as the wind lifts them from the flower heads, as the bees brush by them in their pollen-gathering.  And next year, there will be more purple flowers, more blooms, more foliage.  I'll put up with the ugliness in faith that beauty will come with another season.

One of the best books I've read this year has been Cheryl Strayed's Wild. In her memoir of her trek along the Pacific Crest trail, she speaks of the awful life choices that brought her to the point of making that solo journey. And as she reaches the end, she realizes:  all the choices of her life -- the good and the bad, the mistakes and the triumphs, the sin and the salvation -- all brought her to the point of success, of healing, of completion. The thought gives me hope when the dead flowers outnumber the growing, when the failures outweigh the successes, when the fears pile up and the hopes dwindle.


Sometimes life holds the soft promises of new buds; sometimes it blazes bright with  accomplishment, the gift of full flower.  And sometimes, life dies back, stands somberly as the dying echinchea; soon, all my beds will hold mostly brown stalks, dried seed heads, decomposing petals.  Try as I might to water and feed, I can't hold back the dying.  And so I don't.  I let it be, take a deep breath, and try to remember that everything in life cycles, even success, even happiness.  To live in the oasis, we must also cross the desert.

Did you just see me look at my wrist to remind myself of that?