Letting go is an act of faith

This is not a piece about politics. This is a piece about mortality, and fallibility, and the sad, comforting fact that no one and nothing is permanent.

Yes, I’m talking about Joe Biden, the way the natural manifestations of aging that you and I might see more privately in the behavior of our own family members — and even in ourselves — have played out for him in the public spotlight. How these hyper-scrutinized slip-ups have led to him abandoning his re-election bid in favor of his party and country.

I’m talking about Joe Biden, but I’m thinking of all of us, all of us who are fortunate enough to reach an age when our vitality wanes and our faculties become clouded.

This process can be painful, but it need not be tragic. What makes it tragic is a culture that values one type of contribution above all others. Acting, doing, producing, performing: these are the things we value. Literally — these are the requirements for winning prizes, status, power, money, fame. We also give honor to their lieutenants: steadfastness, determination, perseverance.

It’s no wonder, Joe, that after the debate you responded to our concerns with, “If you get knocked down, you get back up,” and “I’m not going anywhere, folks… I promise you that.” You did exactly what our culture has taught us good people do.

We will all have to let go at some point. Few of us will take on this task while carrying the responsibility of leading an entire nation.

But imagine a less restrictive curriculum. What if our society also taught the value of proportion, humility, and the ability to acknowledge our limitations? What if it recognized that our contributions can sometimes take the form of not do, have the courage to step back, to be silent, to make space for others? Imagine seeing these not as signs of weakness or denial, but as signs of strength and deep humanity.

Years ago, when my mother was dying, someone in the room described her as “diminished.” Even though she was at the point where she barely spoke, she shook her head and, with her eyes closed, offered a correction: “Not diminished. More essential.” The boulder of grief in my chest moved, releasing a wave of warm laughter. This used to be her deepest being. She spoke the truth.

What if we could understand the processes of aging, slowing down, and even dying not just as a story of loss, but also as a kind of distillation, a shedding of earthly burdens and a return to something elemental?

We will all have to let go at some point. Few of us will take on this task while carrying the responsibility of leading an entire people. There is a story in ancient Jewish mysticism that God chose to step back from creating the universe, to make room for the world to come into being. What a wonderful offer: to step back, not as an act of diminishment, but of generativity. What if we could see letting go not as an act of giving up, not as a forfeiture or failure, but as a way to model grace and honesty, a sign of faith in others?

What if we no longer saw letting go as an act of giving up, not as loss or failure, but as a way of showing grace and honesty, a sign of trust in others?

Nothing is permanent. This can make us sad, but it is also very reassuring. Nothing lasts forever, not people, not wars, not governments, not nations. The Buddhist monk Thích Nhất Hạnh teaches that without impermanence, a seed would never become a plant; a cloud would never become rain. We are at a moment when the media tells us that our democracy may be coming to an end. This is terrifying, and terror is very good at keeping us in the present, in the status quo. But the truth is that none of us knows where this may lead. It is okay to be afraid. It is okay to be sad.

As I see it, the source of fear and the source of comfort are one and the same.

To acknowledge impermanence is to understand that everything is in flux. The same force that makes loss possible makes growth possible. This does not mean that we should resign ourselves to whatever happens; it is not a recipe for passivity. But it can create a little space. A little space where we can pause, breathe, look around us and see that we are not alone. A little space where we can let go of our stinging resistance to change and perhaps reach out with our newly freed hands to touch those around us, accept that none of us will be here forever, trust that others will build something in our wake and hope that it will be beautiful.

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