Letting Go

Some things we carry because we need them. Some we carry only out of habit. The trick is telling them apart.

The teacher told a story about a man on a journey who comes to a wide river. The near bank is dangerous; the far bank is safe. But there’s no bridge, no boat. So, resourcefully, the man gathers branches and reeds and lashes together a raft, and with great effort paddles himself across to safety. Smart. The raft did exactly what he needed.

But then — and here’s the turn — the man thinks: this raft served me so well, I’ll keep it. And he hoists it onto his head and carries it with him down the road, this heavy, dripping thing, for the rest of his journey. The students laughed: that’s foolish. He should have left the raft at the bank, grateful, and walked on free. He’s carrying the very thing that was only ever meant to carry him.

Even the things that genuinely helped you cross can become a weight if you refuse to set them down once you’re across.

What struck me, reading this, is that the raft wasn’t bad. It saved him. This isn’t a story about dropping harmful things — those are easy to see the sense in releasing. It’s about the harder kind of letting go: releasing the good things, the helpful things, the things that worked, once their season is over. The role that defined you. The way of seeing that got you through a hard decade. The version of yourself that survived something. All real. All, at some point, a raft you’re still carrying on your head.

The teacher was talking, in part, about his own teachings — even these, he said, are a raft to get you across, not a load to haul forever. Which is a strikingly humble thing for a teacher to say, and a freeing one. Hold the helpful thing lightly enough that you can set it down when it’s done its work.

So much of the heaviness we carry is like that raft: useful once, gripped long past its usefulness. The grudge that once protected you. The worry that once kept you sharp. The identity that once fit. You’re allowed to be grateful and still put it down.

Take a breath. There's no rush to the next page.

Where this comes from

From “Let Go of Everything, Release All Things,” based on the raft simile of the Alagaddūpama Sutta.