The Audience's Wisdom: Learning to Let Life Flow

Many writers have used the imagery of life as a movie unfolding before us, so allow me in this article to use this metaphor in my attempt to explain what true surrender means and why it is so important.

Our choices begin from the moment we select the movie—a comedy, a romance, a drama of power, or war? There are so many categories to choose from. Life is a mix of all of these, and the astute reader understands how to decipher the minute meanings and nuances even when all appears seemingly mundane on the surface.

When the selection of the movie is made, we unconsciously wish to fall a little in love with our choice, even if only for a while. We want to be captivated, to be fully immersed in each and every scene. If we are lucky, we will be—it means we have made the right choice.

If we have made the right choice, we move on to invest ourselves in the plot—becoming completely immersed. In most movies, there are two opposing characters: the protagonist and the antagonist. It is natural at this point for the observer to pick a side as we watch the story unfold.

So absorbed are we that our pulse quickens as we anticipate the plot twists and hardships that have yet to come to our favorite character. Our hearts constrict, and sometimes, some of us might even wish we could alter the scenes yet to come or fast-forward to the moments ahead so that we do not have to witness the "bad parts." It is also at these points of anticipation that we begin to cast judgment on the characters who oppose our protagonist—drawing from knowledge and memory of similar stories of heartbreak, disasters, and catastrophes.

It is at these precise points in the movie of life that the art of surrendering lies. No matter how many previous movies we may have watched before, each new movie of life is different—and it is in the surrendering of anticipated control that allows the freedom of beautiful creative direction to demonstrate the magic of unanticipated paths.

Only by stepping back and allowing the movie of life to play out can we see the full beauty of the scene. Only then can we witness the stories of the protagonist and her assumed opposition, understanding why each played their part in their own self-believed righteous journey. Only then can we understand that each role had to be played to its fullest potential, with each character convinced that theirs was the only way.

As an observer, the hardest role is one of non-intervention. Our role is to watch from a place of understanding and compassion, resisting the urge to seize control—to direct the story—or shout as if we were the referee of a football match.

It is impossible to see the whole picture, no matter how big the scene is or how long the movie has played, until it has fully ended. Then, and only then, can the audience appreciate the mastery and crafting of how all the pieces came together, and how the glimpses were only ever a tease and a bait.

The art of a good movie is never just about how beautifully it was filmed or how rich the set. The art of a good movie lies in how much it touched our hearts for that brief span of time, allowing us to feel safe enough to surrender and know that all is well. For there are no true victories or defeats – all of it exists only in our minds, and all we need to do is softly let the notion go.

Quietly, Softly,

Arora