Gaining Wisdom

Knowledge is learning something every day. Wisdom is letting go of something every day.
~ Zen Proverb

I used to think I knew everything. Ev-er-y-thing.  Just ask my mom, she'll confirm this. 

Besides being a girl who thought she knew everything, I was also a girl who could not let go of anything. You can ask my mom to confirm this, too. Once during a move, my mom became exasperated at the amount of stuff I had. She opened my hope chest and about lost it. It was crammed and heavy and she said no one was moving all that stuff.  She picked up a box of notes I'd been saving since junior high. Literally every single note anyone had ever written me was in there. She walked to the trash can and pitched the box in. When the box landed, it was as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I had anxiety about it for a little while. I know, it was a box of notes. But, it wasn't just a box of notes to me. It was friendship and memories and laughter and silly, inside jokes... and a note typed on toilet paper. (Really.) What I didn't realize was that if I let those notes go, the later wasn't going to go with them. 


As you might recall, that May day started out like any other. The late May weather was perfection, with pristine blue sky and temperatures warm enough for shorts. The school year was on the way out, and my classes worked out the last details of their research papers.  

I remember being in this place with my husband where we could laugh with each other again. We could say things back and forth that only we could understand, and I remember feeling so content because of that. 


We'd exchanged emails at the beginning of the day, planning a night out with friends. I looked back and forth between my students and the emails, and all felt right. 


Then an email came that read, "Something's come up. When are you free? I need to talk to you."

Staring at the screen, I knew, knew with every ounce of my being,  something was terribly wrong.

Hastily, I typed back, "My lunch is hours away. What is the matter? I'm scared."


Panic set in. When I panic, I must move. At first, I paced around my classroom. The students looked at me out of the corners of their eyes and sensed how uncomfortable I'd become. No one talked.


I flexed my fists over and over. Not being able to stand it any longer, I went into the library office and told one of my dearest friends I needed to use the phone. Someone went to watch my class, and with trembling hands, I dialed my husband's cell phone. 

The instant the phone connected, I knew he was in his car, driving, no longer at work. Everything baffled me.

He told me several things, none of which I could comprehend. I told him I'd be right home, and he calmly told me to stay at school. I screamed into the phone, "I can not stay here!" My heart hurt by this time from banging so fiercely inside my chest, my underarms were sweating and a sharp pain had developed between my temples.



With briskness, I left school. The only thing I remember is the look on the secretary's face as I heedlessly walked into and directly out of the office, telling her over my shoulder something was wrong with my husband and I had to leave. Now. 


To detail the rest of the afternoon for you, there would be little coherence. I remember snippets. Pieces. The pristine blue, cloudless sky. A sense of urgency and trouble. Phone calls to my mother so she could pick the children up and care for them. My husband pacing like a rapid dog in the courtyard of our home. Driving alone, then with my husband. A tremendous feeling of panic and doubt and disbelief. Simply not knowing... anything. I remember sobbing and wailing and beating my fists upon my husband's chest. 


By 5:00, the time when most families are sitting down to dinner and recapping their day, and smiling, and sighing that another day has been so well for them, the police were at my door, searching for my husband. 


The officer came in, and this is all I know of the arrest. 

He shouted for me to get the dog under control, or he would. I shrieked, "Leave Lulu alone." I sobbed, "Please, do not hurt my dog." This is what I did as he led my husband away, down the stairs, out the door. And, I let him go. I never once called out, I never once said "Stop." I just sunk to the floor and buried myself in my dog's fur. I let him go.


That was the moment in my life when I became wise. It was the right thing to do, to let him go. It was the only thing to do if I was going to save myself and my children. It was my moment of enlightenment. For so long, I thought I knew my husband, I thought I knew my life. But, I truly did not. In that moment of enlightenment, I realized I had no knowledge, but I had gained wisdom, and therefore, I would be just fine. I could sense it.


It has been over two years since I let my husband go. He may be gone, but my memories with him, our happiest times, our proudest moments, they are still there, just as I'd learned with the box of notes. 


This post is dedicated to Jodi, the girl who typed the note on toilet paper so many years ago. It still is one of life's greatest accomplishments.