Distracted last time by someone mid-sentence, when I went back to my journal today I found this: “When will I let” — which occurs to me is a good question, even without the finish of whatever was the igniting thought and the absence of end punctuation. When will I let? Isn’t so much of living and living well about letting? Letting go. Letting myself be myself. Letting others be who they are. Letting things unfold in their own time. Letting bygones be bygones. Living and letting live. Letting sleeping dogs lie. Let it rest. Let go. Let loose. Let the chips fall. Let the good times roll. This question of when, it occurs to me, should always be answered with “Now,” as the question is a leading one, the witness under the steady lamplight of inquisition. There is a peevishness to the question “when?” that reveals the impatience of the questioner. In other words, stop doing whatever you’ve been doing, o tiresome one, and start doing the thing that must be done. Okay. Now. Let ‘er rip.