Letting Go

Well, some bitches stole my car yesterday. That's right. I went outside on Christmas morning, hoping for one day to feel optimistic about humanity, and my beloved '96 Honda Accord EX 4D Sedan had been stolen from its customary parking spot on the side street across from our apartment. A slightly paranoid small town guy, I'd known for years that this could be my automobile's fate, yet still I cursed the heavens for absconding with my trusty road trip companion in the prime of its Honda life (only 82,000 miles!). No rust, no undue wear, and I'd recently put $1,200 worth of work into it, including a new timing belt, an amount of money that still sits on my credit card like a lump of coal.

Later last night, after things had settled down into a normally bad Christmas, I read The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche and found solace in his words:

Since impermanence to us spells anguish, we grasp on to things desperately, even though all things change. We are terrified of letting go, terrified, in fact, of living at all, since learning to live is learning to let go. And this is the irony and tragedy of our struggle to hold on: not only is it impossible, but it brings us the very pain we seek to avoid.

So I hereby let go of my beloved Honda (though the cops say they usually find stolen cars dumped within a few weeks, often stripped of various parts). Goodbye, Honda, and I mourn for your loss of innocence!