When I was a little girl, I had a blue blanket. My mother was brilliant. She bought a large pale blue blanket for a king sized bed then cut it down into four separate pieces, binding the edges to make four, smaller separate sized blankets.
I didn’t carry it around with me everywhere. Mostly, a slept with it beside my pillow, turning and tossing it around so that my cheek would rest on the coolest part of the fabric. It was my comfort thing, the one thing I wanted in bed with me but not needed. I don’t remember taking it with me when I spent the night at a friend’s place or stayed at my aunt’s or even went away to summer camp. But it was there, a part of my bed, for many years. It wasn’t until I left home that I left the blanket altogether and, even then, I didn’t leave it right away.
Maybe letting go of home was the first step to letting go of this remnant from my childhood. Is that where and how it begins? We reach an age—or maybe, really, it’s a turning point—and we put away the things we’ve outgrown. The problem is too often the only way I seem to let go of anything is when I am convinced, on some level, I have outgrown it or perhaps that it has outgrown its usefulness to me. Especially how I feel or think about things, people, circumstances. I hold onto how I’ve felt and what I’ve thought for so long, far beyond the point when what I feel and think no longer serve me in any way.
It may be hard to tell, but this blog post is a step in letting go. I still want to rest my cheek against something soft and cool, my eyes closed. But I think it’s time to let go, time for me to grow up.