"Letting Go to Grow" (burning bowl ritual)
Peg Duthie
Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Cookeville
3 January 2010

So. It's finally 2010. I say "finally" because it feels like we've been deluged with year-end and decade-end retrospectives for weeks now, even though the year and the decade didn't actually come to an end until less than a hundred hours ago. I also say "finally" because 2009 was an exceptionally rough year for a number of my friends, and even the uber-rational ones have been saying things like "Good riddance, 2009" and "Ding-dong, the year is dead," even though they know as well as I do that the Gregorian calendar is an artificial construction: there is nothing intrinsically "newer" about the day we call "January 1" than the day we call "December 31" except for the fact that we collectively observe these demarcations of time.

Even so, my own subconscious has been hinting that it's ready to move on: I've caught myself writing "2010" instead of "2009" on notes and checks several times during the past month, even though the conscious part of me has been wailing and shrieking, "I'm not ready yet! Not so cotton-pickin' fast! I'm nowhere near done with all the stuff I was supposed to get done this year!"

But, of course, wailing and shrieking does not make Time stand still. So, while there's a part of me saying, "It's finally 2010," there's another part that's been saying, "Good golly, it's already 2010?" and pondering how to go about this year so that there's a little less wailing and shrieking on my part 362 days from now.

One of the things I do know is that I carry with me a fair amount of literal and mental clutter. Sometimes I even think of it as a virtue, taking great pride in my foresight and preparation: I've been the woman who has wet wipes handy when your kid has chocolate cake all over her face. Need a black t-shirt autographed? I might just have a gel pen you can borrow. However, I've also locked myself out of house and car multiple times in the process of being too rushed and distracted, and it's no good having a well-stocked purse when it and the cell phone in it are locked up in that house and car.

And that, in a nutshell, is why, for generations upon generations, spiritual counselors and self-help gurus have told we learn how to let go. There's an old story about a pair of Buddhist monks traveling together, who according to the rules of their order, aren't supposed to have any physical contact with women. They meet a woman by a river who asks them to help her cross it. The younger monk says, "We can't." The older monk tells her to climb onto his back, carries her across, and bids her farewell on the other side.

The two monks travel on for a couple of miles or so, before the younger monk finally bursts out with, "What were you thinking back there?" The older monk responds with, "I carried her over just the river. You have been carrying her ever since."

I get this story, and at the same time, I can't help sympathizing with the younger monk: oftentimes my brain does not want to mind its own business, never mind getting on with it. It's a common-enough affliction across all ages, and there are several longstanding approaches to addressing it. The first is to write things down. Writing things down has a way of making them more quantifiable, more assessable, more manageable, more real. For example, people trying to lose weight are advised to keep detailed food diaries, tracking everything that they eat. People trying to get a grip on their finances are instructed to do the same with their expenditures, to see how things actually add up. People invest time in developing personal and institutional mission statements, which define priorities and reinforce them. Writing things out puts them into focus.

The second tool we have is community, and the safety net it can provide. A good deal of hoarding -- both material and emotional - has its root in fear. The fear of no one being there for you if you fall on hard times. The fear of not being prepared enough for life's speed bumps and curveballs. The fear of being thought inept or incompetent if you have to ask for help. The fear of asking for help and being denied.

I would never presume to tell you that these fears are entirely groundless, but I will tell you what many - and probably most -- of you already know: that no amount of preparation will spare you from sorrow or heartache or other unwelcome surprises. Life is just plain mean like that. But life also contains an abundance of love and openheartedness on offer, and being a part of a congregation such as this one increases your proximity to that love and generosity, both in your opportunities to give and to receive. This chalice that we light every single week is firmly linked to the words "the warmth of community" and its implicit promise that we will show up with hot soup if you are hungry and find some way to get a coat to you if you are cold.

Which brings me to ritual, which is the junction of writing things out and the power of community. You've been given a couple of slips of paper and something to write with. In a moment, I'm going to stop talking and give you several minutes to write on them. On one of those slips of paper, I want you write down anything you can think of from the past year that you want to let go or get rid of -- things you don't want to carry with you into 2010. They can be negative feelings or unpleasant memories or plain old clutter - whatever you would call "baggage" that's making your heart heavy and your feet slow.

After everyone's done writing, we'll be casting those slips of paper into a bowl containing a fire started by this chalice. That fire is the light of this community helping you let go of that baggage - sending it into the nothingness where it belongs - so that you don't stay stuck carrying it. So that it isn't taking up the space you need to grow into your truer self.

On the other sheet of paper - and either of these steps is optional, no one's keeping track or score - I invite you to write a note to your future self. Who do you hope to become? What do you want to welcome into your life? Write this down, put it into an envelope, seal it, and address it to yourself. These you can drop into the offertory plate. I will take these home with me, and I won't read them, but I will mail your letter to you in six months. Feel free to give yourself compliments! -- remember, writing things down has a way of making them more real. What are your intentions for the year? What are your expectations? Take these next few minute to write down what you want to let go and what you want to keep and add.


[music playing, people writing]

Let us cast into the fire what we wish to leave behind.

[papers --> fire]

If you've ever tended a flower bush or an herb garden, you've probably heard of pinching or pruning off a plant's excess growth or no longer viable blooms, so that it can sustain and direct its energy towards the parts that matter. May being a part of this ritual and this community likewise help you grow and flourish. Amen and alleluia.