A single star suspended in the morning sky attracted me in its silent glory.  I leaned back against my car and observed the star's glinting presence until the sky grew pale with the day's first light.  "A sky to remember," I thought, as I headed off to work.  

The memory stayed with me all week, that dose of blue sky and silver star like protein powder causing me to brim with grace and energy.  

Then later in the week I read an excerpt from Dr. Henry Cloud's book, Necessary Losses.  He provided a metaphor that resonated.  He spoke of the rose bush.  He described how rose bushes produce many more buds than they can sustain.  The person growing roses must trim many of the buds to allow the plant to route its resources to nourish the healthiest blooms.  If the plant is not pruned, the roses will not flourish.  Dr. Cloud stated that often our lives can be like the rose bush.  We perceive loss as negative, rather than embrace the concept of letting go as a means to increase health and wholeness.  Perhaps I was magnetized to the morning sky, because it bore the symbolism of simplification.  Paring down.  One star, glowing aloft in its blue estate.

Where could I begin to snip?

I started with my closet.  Clothes I had not worn in literally years now gone.  Why was I keeping the boots with the slight tear in the toe?  

All those emails from stores sending me coupons and specials.  Why weren't they going to the junk box?  All of them unsubscribed.  

Social media.  My love-hate relationship with Facebook.  I gave myself permission to let it be okay that I mostly disliked it.  No more pressure.

Kitchen cabinets.  Purged of old tin pie pans and slightly burned cookie sheets.  I don't bake. 

"No, I'm unavailable to commit to that."  People pleasing diminished.

Waiting to see my doctor, feelings of anxiety creeping in, attempting to force out hope and faith.  "The cancer's probably back."  No.  Fear lopped off.  

I am learning to let go.  "God, help me remember that sky."