Song for a New Year: Close the Loop & Let It Go

Last year was a year of evaluation. It was a year of questions, many of which were propelled by my fortieth birthday in October. I never expected turning forty to feel like such a big deal for me, but I also didn’t expect to turn forty after eighteen months of living in this strange and ever-shifting world. I didn’t know that after so many months I’d feel so exhausted or so trapped, that ultimately I’d have more questions than I had answers for.

But, if one thing colored 2021 for me, it was the realization that many things in my life couldn’t keep going the way they were. I didn’t want to blow my life up, though I considered it and have a newfound empathy for people who do. But my hunger for change became ravenous. In nearly every aspect of my life, every situation I encountered, I asked myself if things were working and—here’s the kicker—I was willing to be honest if the answer was no.

At some point during my late thirties, I unwittingly adopted a scarcity mindset. You know, that niggling thought that says there’s never, ever enough. On repeat. In perpetuity. The thought lingers in the air, a storm cloud always threatening rain.

One day, I looked up and the rain just wouldn’t stop. That never-enough feeling was driving every one of my endeavors, all my projects, my personal life, and my sense of self. The rain, which might ordinarily wash any sticky residue away, had mercilessly drenched all of me.

I’m not sure when I thought of it in terms of a loop, of being stuck in a loop. That image has long been a familiar one, in various iterations: a vicious circle, going around the barn, wearing a groove, beating a path.

Look up “thought loop” on the internet, and you’ll get something like, replaying distressing thoughts and conjuring negative feelings on repeat. The brain can’t distinguish between what’s happening in the present and the thought—it treats everything as if it’s happening now. All stress, all anxiety, all equal.

But there’s something more to loops, something I’ve heard a handful of times. Loops are not only thought patterns where we can get stuck; they can be anything that’s left unresolved or unfinished. Unresolved conflict, unfinished projects, unanswered questions, clutter. Loops begetting loops.

As I filtered through my life this year, addressing what wasn’t working, scrutinizing the loops, it became clear that I had started and started and started but never finished. I had open loops everywhere, from writing projects to community groups to ongoing but strained relationships. As my fortieth birthday came and went, I kept asking, “If I don’t deal with this [fill in the blank] now, when will I deal with it?”

Mostly I knew I didn’t want to start anything new without making some decisions first. Every time I found an open loop, I had to close the loop or abandon it completely. Either choice was fine, but I had to make a choice.

Maybe part of why it’s felt like things aren’t moving forward in my life is because I’ve been leaving too many things unresolved. Maybe those unresolved things are like an overstuffed backpack so full I can barely carry it anymore. All that heavy weight has me feeling exhausted and trapped.

In her essay “Upstream,” Mary Oliver writes:

“Sometimes the desire to be lost again, as long ago, comes over me like a vapor. With growth into adulthood, responsibilities claimed me, so many heavy coats. I didn’t choose them, I don’t fault them, but it took time to reject them. Now in the spring I kneel, I put my face into the packets of violets, the dampness, the freshness, the sense of ever-ness. Something is wrong, I know it, if I don’t keep my attention on eternity. May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful. May I stay forever in the stream.”

So many heavy coats. Yes. Perhaps mine weren’t only adult responsibilities. Perhaps some were of my own choosing, but they were heavy, nonetheless.

Time to put them down.

Sometime in November, as the end of the year loomed ahead, I took on the mantra: Close the loop. I wanted a fresh start, which I knew could only come by addressing the unaddressed, making some decisions, and letting go.

It meant going through old stacks of papers, boxes, the seven-inch-high stack of index cards with quotes I’d accumulated, the writing projects that didn’t pan out. It meant asking myself if all these things had seemed so important years ago were still important now. I had to take a good hard look and accept the honest answer, not fear it.

The real reckoning came, not in dealing with paperwork and old projects, but in my habits, many of which I’d cultivated intentionally, thinking they were leading me down the right path. The way I was writing, journaling, using social media, connecting with others, planning my days, reading—all of it needed honest examination.

Many of the things I was doing were in direct opposition to what I professed to believe: that a life well lived meant moving slowly, paying attention, and listening. I would hustle then burn out, overschedule myself and rebel. I’d seek out best practices instead of listening to my intuition, follow someone else’s advice instead my gut.

The thing about a scarcity mindset is that it makes you hold everything so tightly. Fists clenched, uncompromising. A tight grip becomes habit. When you’re gripping so tightly, it can feel impossible to ask honest questions or listen for honest answers.

Asking requires a loose grip; listening, an open heart.

But here’s what I’m learning: once the loops are closed, you don’t have to keep going back to them. You don’t have to keep circling around, frantically flapping your wings. You can land in an open field. You can move on. 

There’s a line from Kathleen Norris’s Amazing Grace that I think about all the time. As she was thinking about her identity and the voices that were shaping her own sense of self, she writes this [emphasis mine]:

“I found that I no longer had to listen but could let them go.”

Letting go. Loosening. Putting down all the heaviness. Haven’t I said this before? One version of myself holding tightly, another version giving permission to let go.

Maybe in writing this, I’m keeping another loop open, repeating myself again and again.

But maybe, instead of an open loop, it’s a whispered prayer, a liturgy for renewal. Maybe it’s an act of faith, just saying the words bringing something new to life. If I can repent and turn away, close the loops and let go, something new can come to the surface.

“May I be the tiniest nail in the house of the universe, tiny but useful. May I stay forever in the stream.”