Let Go

My grandmother was a matriarch of note. She ruled with an iron fist and made it impossible to leave an instruction unfulfilled.

I distinctly remember one summer school holiday when I’d being told to tend to the garden for several hours as she wasn’t happy about the state of the weeds creeping too close to the rose trees.

Now this wouldn’t have been such a travesty, as I’d been really fond of playing outdoors, had it not been for the fact that it had been my birthday.

All day I fumed and plodded along with my cousins who more than made up for it with the sneaky but small stash of alcohol and a secret garage party that they held in my honour after my gran had gone to bed that night.

I can happily look back at this time now and heartily laugh at what had transpired only because as I grew up, I got to know and understand my gran a whole lot better. In hindsight, I should also be grateful that it was garden work on this particular day and not shining the brassware which always felt like an endless affair.

My gran ran a tight ship with a “take no prisoners” approach not just with us as her grandkids but also with how she approached life. Given the fact that she endured dire circumstances under the Apartheid regime and worked incredibly hard to gain the financial, material and social standing she acquired over the years, I now understand why this method of control needed to be employed.

Interestingly though, as my gran approached what would be her golden years her philosophy around her material possessions, her relationships and even her garden changed. Instead of holding on impossibly tight to all her trinkets and would-be heirlooms or dishing out war-like commands, she started belting out a different tune.

Let go.

Like a mantra she would repeat it and repeat it, especially in the last 2 years or so of her glorious life. Silly old me was far too young to understand it back then, but looking back as an almost-adult it all makes sense.

With these two simple words she was able to convey her transcension above all the worrisome details that had plagued her for most of her life.

She most definitely still did things her own way, but I think there was a greater sense of peace and light-heartedness in her spirit that I’d missed out on experiencing as a child. And believe you me, even as a naïve university student I picked up on her change in demeanour mostly because, as silly as sounds, this is what I thought all grandmothers were supposed to be like.

And it was marvellous. The garden no longer took center stage. All talk of cleaning the brassware had come to a dead stop. Grand schemes probably still continued but they were no longer at the forefront.

Unlike my school holidays, we spent most of my university holidays idly chatting, taking long afternoon naps and sometimes even leaving the dishes in the sink unattended so that we could watch one of her TV shows together.

I guess letting go of the angsty attachment to her material possessions, her pre-occupation with the outcomes she had no say in and the incessant need to control everything allowed her to just be.

To live in the moment without fretting about the people and possessions that we sometimes perceive as being the defining aspects of our lives but are actually just fleeting thoughts and things if you really think about it.

Up until today, I have no idea how my gran came upon this term but life and all its unsolicited lessons have taught me the value of letting go and patiently accepting what is.

It’s not at all easy and I’ll probably always be working on it, but I’ve realised that the benefit of letting go is a peaceful night’s sleep, which we all know is increasingly hard to come by these days, as well as a less disturbed and more present mind which is a priceless asset in today’s crazed and frantic world.