I kept a copy of this poem on my university dorm room wall. The words helped me to let go of things that needed letting go—bad grades, big mistakes, over-indulgences.

Now I’m an older, and my moving finger has written a lot of lines.

Most I wouldn’t choose to cancel. I want to cling to memories of the fresh way my children smelled when they came in from playing in the rain, the sound of my son’s toddler laugh, and the way the sun lit up my daughter’s blond hair when she ran across the park behind our house. I want to stop time and cling to all those joyful things. But I have to let go. The moving finger insists upon it.

Everyone who knows me well knows that I idolize Roger Federer, a retired professional tennis player. He owes his success to his outstanding skill AND his ability to let go. We could never count Federer out of a match. If he missed a shot, he didn’t dwell on the mistake. He learned from it, let it go and moved on to success.

We like to cling to things, don’t we?

We cling to cherished possessions. That’s fine, unless our house begins to look like an episode of Hoarders. We cling to our children. That’s fine, unless we smother them and prevent them from learning to manage their own lives. We cling to our mistakes. That’s fine, unless we get mired in believing that a mistake defines us.

Letting go is an acquired, and necessary, skill.

I foster it every time I receive a rejection to something I’ve written. If I let go of enough resentments, doubts or regrets, I open up room for other, better opportunities.

Moving on . . .