Don't Just Stop. Make an Ending

There are so many blessings that can blossom from release: renewal, transformation, rest and repair. And sometimes, a season of releasing evolves into an ending.

I think I can feel the difference when I become quiet enough to listen. My thoughts know. My emotions know. My body often knows before I am willing to say it aloud.

Something is ending.

I am not always quick to declare it.

In fact, sometimes I wait a little too long.

I want to be sure. I don't want to destroy prematurely something that still has life in it. I wonder whether I should give it more time, more effort, more patience. I wonder if the problem is me. If I could just change something, understand something, try something different, maybe life would return.

And sometimes it does.

But sometimes what looks like life is really life support.

That can be difficult to distinguish because endings rarely happen all at once. Light still lingers after sunset. The sun has disappeared below the horizon, but the sky remains illuminated for a while. We can still see where we're going. There is still warmth in the air.

And yet, the day has ended.

Maybe endings are like that.

They have a beginning, a middle and an end of their own. There is the first awareness that something has changed. Then there is the long twilight when we question what we know. And finally, there comes the moment when we are willing to name what has already happened.

It makes me wonder whether the better question is not, "Is this over?" but:

Has it felt like the end for a while?

The end of work being worth the effort.

The end of mutuality or commitment in a relationship.

The end of passion for a creative project.

The end of our willingness to continue pouring ourselves into something from which we receive too little in return.

Sometimes we keep things alive long after their natural season because ending them requires us to face whatever comes next.

The unknown.

Other people's judgment.

The repercussions of our decision.

The responsibility of independence.

Perhaps even the frightening possibility that after the ending, there will be an empty space where something familiar used to be.

But empty space is not necessarily a problem to solve.

Nature seems remarkably comfortable with it.

Right now, summer is winding down and fall is approaching. I can feel the passing of what has been an amazing season. I don't feel sad about it. I don't need summer to become permanent in order for it to have been wonderful.

Maybe that is something seasons can teach us about endings.

An ending does not invalidate what came before it.

Something can have been beautiful and still be complete.

A relationship can have mattered and still be finished. Work can have been meaningful and no longer be worth the cost. A dream can have carried us somewhere important and still be ready to be replaced by another dream.

Endings don't even have to be sad.

Some are.

Some are triumphant.

Some arrive with relief.

And some are surprisingly neutral, a simple inner recognition: This is complete.

Yesterday, I went to a songwriter's workshop. We were given twenty minutes to write a song. What a freeing practice! There wasn't enough time to agonize over every word or decide whether an idea was worthy. I simply had to listen for what wanted to come.

The song that arrived was called "Letting Go." You can listen here.

Maybe that isn't a coincidence.

Maybe releasing begins with loosening our grip.

And ending is the moment we finally open our hand.

There is courage in trying to save what still has life.

There is also courage in recognizing when the light we see is only the last glow of a day that has already ended.

I don't want to rush the sunset.

But I don't want to mistake twilight for morning either.

Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is allow an ending to complete.

And then turn gently inward, and sit for a while admiring the fading light and marvel at all the waning season has gifted.