open your hands

At times, the feeling is so strong, I can feel my nails digging into my palms. But when I look down at them, they are open; not clenched. My own eyes deceive me, because my mind's eye still sees that there is something I'm holding.

"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.

On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.

But they are few and far between.

I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.

Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."

"Let go. Receive."

Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?