Let It Go

Today, I drove to a local bookseller to pick up two poetry books I bought online for Sweety, for Mothers’ Day. Yeah. They were in the city when I ordered them ten days or so in advance. But whatever; we lived… just hungering for poetry… anyway, she loved them. Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou.

The random (choose-from-your-whole-owned-collection) play in the car served up this delightful, lovely song, “Let It Go” on the way to the stores.

Businesses are super-busy trying to adapt to the ever-changing landscape we have been in since March. I try to remember that especially so now, when we are all under pressure, and some customers are impatient or defy the stores’ application of public health orders.

And, to be fair, the books were ready to pick up on the 17th, but it’s been a busy week, getting the house, porch and yard all sorted out from the brutal winter. But today, since our porch was going to be cleaned and habitable, I thought it might be a nice evening for Sweety to enjoy reading some poetry in our “outdoor living room.” (We genuinely consider that the name of our outside space; so much so that I insist people remove their shoes when they’re visiting us in the porch because, well, you know, you’re indoors… with those dirty outdoor soles…)

But I digress. Every Friday evening, we’ve been joining, through Zoom, a poetry group out of Colorado, USA that I know of through a dear friend who lives in Eldora, CO (elevation 8,642 feet above sea level). He’s been a crucial part of the group that has kept me alive for the last decade or so. He has visited here a few times to spend time with soulful men. And along with three other fellows, I visited him in Eldora in 2012. 

It was a terrific time… the trip there took us through varied and picturesque scenery and a very long drive one night. (This, because my three fellow travellers insisted we could do the 18 hours of driving and arrive fresh the next day. Yeah. I’m the youngest of the group, by the way. We finally stopped. Found one room. Two double beds. Four men. Sleeping clothed.) 

Next morning, my entertainment was sitting in my overtired stupor in a cafe near the motel, watching one of my comrades nearly drag the other across the table by his neck due to some minor, long-road-trip conflict or other.

I can hardly describe the rest of the time there without writing a book; but I’ll always remember the camping spot my friend set up for two of us on the side of Ute Mountain, and just outside the tent, a circle of rocks to surround a fire. It was a profoundly spiritual spot, I felt. In my mind, I’ve returned there many times since then: our family and closest friends experiencing six deaths, eight severe illnesses and injury, a loving reunion vanquishing 17 years of estrangement, the ending of two careers, family challenges often emanating from all that I’ve just written on and, last but not least, having worked much of that time in life-sucking circumstances (contributing to one of the serious illnesses).

And I digress again.

In 2012 in Colorado with my mountain friend, learning, working and tracing the mountain stream, and sharing awe at the world’s beauty, has been among the most soulful experiences of my life. And I am enjoying his and my regular time around the fire in the past few months after we intersected on a couple of online calls early in in the global pandemic lockdown, sharing poetry and recalling all those stories from the belly, of the million years of wisdom behind us as we wait.

Back to today; sitting in our screened-in porch for the first time this year, I thought it would be an excellent place for Sweety and me to join many of our online gatherings with that dear friend, and friends we’ve only known on Zoom… except, the street noise here would continuously take the microphone! Oh well… as my dear mum said in a conjured stern voice, “Well, If that’s all you got to worry about…”

Time for a song? Some poetry? 

“Every second I get older there’s a line
I get down and pray for time
Every moment is a boulder being fired
every night a day has died,
Let it go, you can’t try to race it
don’t you know you don’t have to face it,
keep your head, don’t be misled to waste it
Run away with me…
I’m a sinner cos I’m led by vanity
Someone come and save my soul
Say the word and I will take you down with me
Somewhere we can both grow old
Let it go, you can’t try to race it
don’t you know you don’t have to face it,
keep your head, don’t be misled to waste it
Run away with me…
I don’t know what to do about this anymore
You know, sometimes I forget I’m alive
You know, sometimes I forget I’m alive
It’s too dark and it’s too light
It’s too loud and it’s too bright
and it’s too hard, and too
long to be on your own,
So run away with me”

(“Let It Go,” by Rebecca Jones, Bill Ryder Jones)

The lyrics seem for me to sum up what we’ve lived from 2012 to now, and through it I’ve learned to find, as another, newer Colorado friend dubs it, “the joy of conflict,” and, much more, setting me off down that glorious path where I learned that grief opens us to gratitude. For me, deepest tragedy has led me to open to solace and gratefulness for what I’ve received, am receiving and will receive in my life. And of the beauty and fragility of life.

Anyway, a bit of a long, rambling, “summer porch” kind of a post. Ahhhhh…

Since listening this song and looking for a YouTube or other streaming presence to introduce you to it, I’ve heard several other Saint Saviour’s songs. I have no recollection of buying her song in November 2014 and really am not sure I can remember ever hearing it before, but must have. Serendipity.

And now, the sound of spring rain as it becomes time to move inside, in the cool of evening and the making of bedtime. Good evening, all.

Now you know a little about why this is my song of the day for today. Thanks for joining me here, and please enjoy.

Here’s the video for the song from Saint Saviour’s official YouTube channel:

2 thoughts on “Let It Go

  1. Hi Steve, I can’t respond otherwise, but thanks for this. It is beautiful and you are a very evocative writer. I watched the video and though the people are so young, here I am 61 bawling away! Nancy

    Like

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