You Can Loosen Your Grip and Still Love

This week, my meditations and readings kept bringing me back to the same question:

How tightly am I holding the things I love?

In one meditation, I watched an aquarium shift upright, spilling water and fish. I immediately began trying to catch the fish and return them to safety. Every part of me wanted to make sure they were okay.

Then I heard a reassurance: “You created these fish. They’re going to be fine.”

I have been sitting with that image ever since.

How often do I rush to catch everything the moment it moves beyond the place where I expected it to stay? A relationship changes. A plan takes an unexpected turn. Someone I love makes a choice I cannot understand. Before I have even taken a breath, I am reaching, arranging, worrying, and trying to put everything back.

Sometimes there is something useful for me to do. Sometimes my hands are simply trying to hold more than they can carry.

When Worry Becomes a Way of Loving

There is a quiet belief many of us carry: if I keep thinking about it, keep watching it, keep trying to figure it out, perhaps I can keep it safe.

We replay conversations. We imagine what could happen next. We search for the right words, the right moment, the one thing that might finally make a difference.

And underneath all that effort is often a tender fear.

What if I stop trying so hard and lose something precious?

I understand that fear. When something matters deeply, loosening our grip can feel uncomfortable. Resting can feel irresponsible. Enjoying an ordinary afternoon can bring a surprising wave of guilt when some part of our life remains unresolved.

Yet constant worry takes so much from us. Our bodies stay braced. Our minds keep circling. We become so occupied with what might happen that we have little room to experience what is here.

I am learning to ask myself: Is there a loving action available to me right now, or am I asking worry to do something it cannot do?

That question gives me somewhere to begin.

Walking into the Fog

In another meditation this week, I saw a passage of fog leading into a circular tunnel surrounded by colored lights.

I could not see the entire journey.

Before entering, I cleared my thoughts and returned to the beginning of the passage. Then I stepped into it.

What stays with me is that I had enough awareness to choose my next step, even though I could not see where every step would lead.

So much of life asks this of us.

We want the complete map before we begin. We want reassurance that a boundary will be understood, that a relationship will heal, that a new direction will work, that we will know what to do when we arrive.

Often, we have one honest step available.

A conversation. A pause. An apology. A boundary. An invitation. A willingness to receive support.

I can give that step my attention. The rest may still be covered in fog.

Allowing a Different Shape

At the end of that meditation, I saw a beautiful golden geometric form in front of the universe. It kept changing shape.

I never saw it settle into a final design.

Perhaps that is why the image has stayed with me. I often look for the finished version: the healed relationship, the settled decision, the clear understanding of what everything means.

But life keeps moving while I am looking.

A relationship may need new boundaries. A dream may grow in a direction I never imagined. My understanding of myself may expand enough that an old role no longer fits.

There can be grief in that movement. I can miss what was familiar and still make room for what is developing.

I also have to leave room for other people’s choices. My love cannot decide their path for them. What I can tend is how I show up, what I offer, and how I care for myself along the way.

A Little Room to Breathe

If you recognize yourself in this, I invite you to pause for a moment.

Place your hands comfortably in your lap, palms open. Take one gentle breath.

Bring to mind something you have been holding tightly. Notice what you have been asking yourself to manage.

Then ask:

What belongs to me to do today?

Let the answer be small enough to practice. Perhaps you need to send a message, follow through on a commitment, or speak honestly. Perhaps you have already done what you can for today and need to eat, rest, walk outside, or let someone care for you.

You might say:

“I love deeply. I allow myself to breathe. I will tend what is mine to tend and give the rest room to unfold.”

You may need to return to this many times. I know I do.

This week, I was shown fish I wanted to rescue, a passage I could not see through, and a golden form that kept becoming something new.

Each image has left me with a little more room to breathe.

Today, I am giving myself permission to loosen my hands—and trust that love can remain in an open palm.

With Love,

Theri

Visionary Light Journey