ForGIVEmas

When the holidays loom over us, it becomes uncomfortably clear that we have unresolved conflicts with family and friends, since the toxic ooze down inside our gut doesn't match the picture of peace on earth we have seen in the media since birth.

It occurs to me today that I'm in the mood to be happy. I'm motivated to cross the rickety bridge of vulnerability and take a final gigantic leap onto the solid ground of “I'm okay-You're okay”. I'm also simply tired. Turning 50 this week has been exhausting. People are deeply invested in making it a great big thing. I don't have it in me to remain angry at anyone for very long these days. It is not that I am reaching a higher ground; believe me, I'd love to wallow in the pits of resentment; it's just that I'm weary and I'd like to reserve all that energy for the next 50 years.

Anger and self-righteousness are rather gross, aren't they. I have lots of great reasons to be angry too. I've been abandoned, betrayed, cheated, fooled, and ignored. I've been laughed at, ditched in a strange land, demonized, misunderstood and humiliated. I've been beat up, stood up, neglected, hospitalized, rolled in a van, crashed into a cement culvert, broken, bruised and battered, held down, locked up, and locked out.

When we look back and see a world of apocalyptic destruction, it is easy to be angry. I have actually found myself on more than one occasion laughing maniacally – that is the sort of laugh that bubbles up unexpectedly in the midst of a desperate sob, when you suddenly realize the utter absurdity of your circumstances and how absolutely frighteningly hilarious the truth is. And there have been times, of course, when I have stared catatonic out the window from 3 am to sunrise. These are the periods of grief that nurture an angry soul. Or these are the periods of grief that propel you into something older and wiser; we actually get to choose, you see.

So I choose life. I choose joy. In the words of one Helen Schucman, “the truth does not need defending”.

This may appear to be a diversion from the topic of forgiveness, but I assure you, it is in direct correlation. The theory about forgiveness is that we hold onto resentments as a protective armor from further harm. We worry that if we “let it go,” it will boomerang right back into our hearts, and...well...we don't like pain. We hate as a defense. We know with confidence that we have been wronged, thus we remain rooted in “I am right. And to forgive you is to claim you are not wrong, or what you did is forgivable and therefore, not such an awful thing,” while we know that our raw wounds say it truly was an awful thing. Therefore, we hold tight to our judgment and likewise the poison it sends directly into our veins. The irony does not escape me.

But the truth does not need defending.

Ergo, I need not shout my truth into the enemy ear. I have another option.

I can be still and know that I am not God. I can step furtively around the muck and grasp that gentle reed of compassion for that child of God, my sister, my brother, my friend, my blood. I can listen for that heartbeat within them and seek out the pain in their eyes and open my throat just enough to let the whisper of love seep from my lips.

I can forgive and give for the healing of our souls which once, not so long ago, held each other in equal esteem. I can let go of the illusion that any of it even matters and rest now. God bless us, every one.