Let Go Or Be Dragged

On my right forearm I have tattooed this Zen proverb: Let go or be dragged. It’s a good one, and one I forget often enough despite the fact I carry the reminder on my person. Last Saturday, my friend Pascal came to the ranch to offer a Master Class in letting go, and the lesson was phenomenal.

I wrote about Pascal here a few weeks ago. We’ve been friends for nearly thirty years. Last September she learned she has glioblastoma, an incurable brain tumor that she named Fred, which has left her paralyzed and facing imminent death. She voiced a desire to have a Living Memorial so that she could, essentially, attend her own funeral. Her plan involved more than receiving an outpouring of love from all of us who adore her. She came up with a gift for us, too.

Pascal is, among other things, a tremendously gifted visual artist. Collaborating with her friends Ryah and Suze, she created an interactive concept centered around spiritual baggage and letting that shit go.¹ Everyone was invited to write down things they wished to unburden—air their dirty laundry as it were— and these notes were then sealed and placed in the Let Go trunk. When Pascal does transition to her next iteration, the trunk and its contents will be set on fire, a collective release of all those time-sucking negative thoughts that have weighed many of us down for a long time.

I didn’t have to think long—or really at all—to write my note. I chose the category REGRETS. Upon my little piece of paper I scrawled words to the effect that I very much regret all of the time I spent in my life trying way too hard to try to “make” people (especially men) love me. Being an Old Crone, I’m over that behavior at long last. But looking back—oh how those futile efforts once consumed me. It felt great to write it down like that and great to drop it into the trunk.

Here’s some good news—you, too, are invited to participate in this project. You can write down what you want to let go of and have your own little fire. Or, if you want, you can mail me a sealed letter, which I will not open, but which I will place in the trunk for you. (Just hit reply to this note if you want my mailing address.)

On hand to help us celebrate Pascal was the Minor Mishap Marching Band, a group of talented and enthusiastic Austin musicians that create joy whenever they play. Though I was more than willing to pay them, they cheerfully declined. They play grief events as part of their service work. Every one of them donated their time and gifts to celebrate our beautiful Pascal.

When the band arrived, before they even hit their first note, I began crying. I don’t cry very much anymore, partly because I used to cry so much that I became scared of crying. Though it’s been a very long time since this has happened, I have had crying jags that literally lasted months. It’s kind of like I trained myself to not go there anymore. But the one thing that can crack the dam and get the waterworks going is when I witness kindness. And boy howdy did kindness fill the air.

Once they did start playing, I shifted gears from weepy to sobbing and I was hardly the only one. Pascal sat in her wheelchair like it was a throne as one after the other of her many gathered friends approached and knelt before her to share a hug, a kiss, an anecdote. A veritable ocean of tears was shed and I think Ryah said it best when it was over and she told me, “I feel scoured clean.”

I’m writing this on Sunday morning. I am completely exhausted, spent, and still quite weepy. So I’m going to stop with the words now and let pictures do the rest of the storytelling for me. I hope, in honor of my friend, you’ll take a little time to give some love, receive some love, and let go of whatever shit is dragging you down.

Beautiful Pascal and her beautiful sons.

NOTES:

Thank you all for being here! And extra thanks to all of you who are pitching in for a paid subscription. If you aren’t yet a paid subscriber, I hope you will consider it. A mere $5 per month—such a bargain. Other ways to help: Share this with someone you think will dig it. Buy a copy of my book Grok This, Bitch. $10 for an e-copy, $30 for a print copy. Venmo: @spike-gillespie

TODAY I will be offering a FREE WRITING WORKSHOP at the San Marcos Public Library from 10 am til noon. REGISTER HERE.

My FREE WRITING WORKSHOPS at Hampton Branch Library happen on the first and third Tuesdays of every month from 5:30-7:30 pm. These always fill up so please REGISTER.

FREE WRITING WORKSHOP AT THE RANCH! On March 29th I’m hosting a workshop at the ranch. It is donation based. 10 am - 1 pm. Space is limited. REGISTER HERE.

Mondays in April I will be offering DONATION BASED Writing Workshops in South Austin. This is an experiment. If it works, I’m going to keep these workshops going. Space is limited. You can REGISTER HERE.

1. ""THEY CHARGE EXTRA FOR BAGGAGE!"- a collaborative, community performance art piece by Pascal Simon and friends

This art piece was born of many conversations Pascal has had with friends over the past few months about how to prepare for death. Although we are ALL, ALWAYS, existing somewhere between living and dying, few of us are told we are dying SOON! Which of course is TERRIBLE! And yet, for an artist like Pascal, it is also an opportunity to create artwork that helps make a little more sense of death, gives it some structure and purpose, and perhaps most importantly, allows Pascal to prepare for her upcomingjourney with wonder, magic and humor. And love.

Today we invite you to accompany part of her journey. You are receiving notice to arrive on a platform in a station. The train is just pulling in. It is full, but not crowded, with souls who hail from everywhere. The train's conductor, porters and attendants are all peculiar, therianthropic angels who organize the train and its passengers with stereotypically German efficiency. They are kind, yet are quick to inform you that, "YOU ARE ALLOWED ONE STANDARD PIECE OF LUGGAGE AND ONE SMALL PERSONAL ITEM ONLY." So, as Alina Prax so aptly put, "they charge for extra baggage!"

Now you are faced with an important decision. What are the most essential pieces of yourself that you wish to carry into the next realm? And what must you leave behind? How to shed old skin that no longer fits you? If you choose to participate in this community artwork, please use the provided notecard to write down something you would like to leave behind (we promise no humans will read it). Close it, seal it with a "P" for Pascal, and bring it in person to her LIVING MEMORIAL on Saturday, March 8, 2025, 12pm - 3pm, at Spike Gillespie's ranch.

During the memorial, your note, along with hundreds of others, will be packed into two large chests, sturdily built to contain such spiritual baggage. Any notes received after the memorial will be included too!

When Pascal finally boards the train, these chests and all they contain will be burned. And so, Pascal is giving us all an opportunity to become lighter as she begins her next adventure.

Thank you for your love and participation!