Solitude and Letting Go

When I was younger, solitude was a rare luxury. I did not stumble into it often. Life was busy, loud, and well intentioned. But on the nights when I found myself alone, I treated it like a small ceremony. I would sit down, turn off every light in my apartment, and turn up my favorite classical music. The good kind. The kind that breathes. I let the notes fill the room until the walls disappeared and I was simply there, floating somewhere between sound and silence.

I was never sad during those moments. Quite the opposite. I felt expanded. Calm. As if the world had politely stepped back and whispered, “Go on, take your time.”

A few nights ago, something familiar knocked on the door.

Stjepan Hauser released a new piece called If You Are My Love. I pressed play in our empty house. Empty in the practical sense. No Terry moving around, no gentle commentary from the next room. I turned off the lights. Old habits die hard. I held Jolie, who takes her job as emotional support supervisor very seriously, and we listened together.

I cannot fully explain what I felt.

I was not sad. I know Terry never left my heart. That part is settled. What surprised me was a quiet sense of hopelessness, which felt out of character. Terry would have raised an eyebrow at that. Possibly two. He was never a fan of hopeless anything.

The Buddha teaches that we are meant to let go so those we love can move on. I understand that. I respect it. I even prayed for it. I asked that Terry be free, unburdened, and at peace. I love him too much to hold him back with clenched fists and unfinished sentences.

I am learning that letting go does not mean forgetting love.
It may mean loosening the grip while keeping the warmth.

Perhaps love is not a rope we have to drop, but a ribbon we can hold more gently. Perhaps longing is just love stretching its wings, checking the weather, seeing what comes next.

The music ended. The house stayed quiet. Jolie sighed, satisfied with our progress.

And I sat there, grateful.

For the music.
For the love that stays.
For learning, slowly, that letting go does not mean loving less.

I think Terry would approve.