#134. Release

What are you keeping alive that is costing you too much?

Maybe you agreed to chair the committee for another year because nobody else stepped forward. You keep initiating lunch with the friend who stopped initiating years ago. You keep doing Christmas because you've always done Christmas. You are the person everybody calls when something needs fixing, but at what cost to you?

When did you last actually choose any of it? We are taught to try harder. Don't give up. Finish what you started. Make it work. Persistence is a virtue—until it isn't.

Lately, I've been wondering about all the things we keep alive simply because we don't know what happens if we stop.

Maybe someone will be disappointed. Maybe we'll feel guilty. Maybe nobody else will step in. Maybe something we worked very hard to build will fall apart without us. Or maybe—and this can be the hardest one—we won't quite know who we are without it.

So we keep adding wood. One more year. One more favor. One more attempt to make it work. Because quitting and completing can look remarkably similar from the outside.

But how do we know when to stop adding wood? A good firekeeper pays attention. She knows how much wood she has. She notices where the warmth is coming from and where energy is simply disappearing up the chimney. She understands that her resources are finite.

So are ours. Time. Energy. Attention. Money. Patience. Love. Even enthusiasm.

Maybe that's what changes in our third chapter. It's not that we suddenly become better at letting go. We become more aware of the cost of not letting go. Every log placed on one fire is a log unavailable to another.

Every hour. Every dollar. Every bit of attention. Every ounce of emotional energy. We are choosing where they go, even when we don't realize we're choosing.

Autumn seems to understand this better than we do. Trees don't cling desperately to every leaf, insisting, But we've been together since April! They release what they can no longer sustain. No drama. No shame. No exit interview.

Just release.

We can learn something from that. We don't have to kick dirt over the flames. We don't have to declare the fire a mistake. We don't even have to leave angry.

What if we simply stop adding wood?

Sit beside it for a while. Feel the warmth that's left. Be grateful for what it gave us. And then look down.

The wood we didn't put on that fire is still in our hands. Where will you put yours?