As I rolled out my yoga mat and surrendered into a forward bend, I tuned in to the tides of love and worry surging through me: the ferocious mother-bear longing for my child to be forever protected from fear and sorrow and rejection and the humiliation of big kids pushing him off the slide; my yearning to make the magic set of decisions that would ensure his happiness forever. But as I smoothed out my ragged equanimity, I remembered that all I could do in this situation was give my very best. I could love Shivam, nurture him, protect him, make the best choices I could for him. But I could not control the unfolding of his life.
As life challenges go, of course, sending a child to preschool is rather minuscule. Shivam and I were facing just a few hours of separation anxiety, not one of the infinite horrors that can strike anyone at any moment. When it comes to equanimity, I’m still using training wheels.
But it’s through such small moments that we train our capacity for letting go—and begin to come to term with the fact that in the end, we can’t control anything but the intention we bring to our actions.
This is not a particularly cuddly insight. It’s not comforting like a warm blanket; it feels more like a free fall off a cliff. But when we open up to the terrifying truth that we can’t manipulate much of any experience worth having, we also open up to the incredible beauty and preciousness of every fragile, uncontrollable moment. All of our fantasized security is revealed to be an illusion, but in the midst of the free fall into emptiness, it’s possible to be at peace.
