the practice of forgiveness
This week someone invited one of my family photos to a group on Flickr. I won’t add these types of photos to groups unless it’s your group and I know you. People that just pop in my stream and invite and don’t comment or even like are ignored.
He invited three photos. One was the wedding photo of my mother’s second marriage. It featured her, him, Aunt Bubbles, and my favourite uncle, Jim. I’d posted this in 2013. Five years ago. While I was busy cleaning out my flat and starting to pack for my move to New Orleans. I’d also posted a lengthy description underneath the photo.
Reading the letter again made me remember, but not the bad things. Only the good. And how lovely if he could be here to see how I have embraced his pastime. He gave me my first Instamatic. :-) He was a splendid photographer, especially of landscapes.
He traveled a lot. Especially the American West, southwest and northwest. I probably got my love of travel from him, too.”
I got some very mixed comments. Most said how kind I was, such a good person, how wise. A few thought I was crazy to forgive him. (My constant readers know I was forgiving him for the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse.) I tried to respond with equal graciousness to everyone. I did understand how some would think me daft; I thought it, too, some days.
But I was at peace. For awhile.
And then Harvey Weinstein happened. And that segued into #metoo. I was angry and sad and felt victimised once more. I forgot my forgiveness.
I forgot it so much that I only remembered it when I looked at the photo again today.
Was my apology not real? Was it just a phase? What did that say about me?
What it said it that I’m human. And like most humans, I needed to find a way to reconcile my past with my present, find a way to move forward, to be able to hold onto the good things in my past, of which there were more than a few, and try to not let the darkness and pain overwhelm me.
But I don’t think forgiveness is a science. It’s fluid and it expands and contracts. If you want to talk about your god and forgiveness in a religious context, that’s another topic. I’m talking about human forgiveness. Or more specifically, this human’s ability to forgive.
I reread my words. Who knows where my actual letter to my father could be. It might have been put in the toss pile by accident or it might me in my file cabinet in a mislabeled folder.
The point is, my apology still stands. I still need to have that in place so I can keep moving forward. It’s imperative to my continued experimenting and experiencing. But it might wane now and then. I might forget about it in a couple of years. But it will still be there. As will my gratitude for all the good things in my life.
I also wrote a letter to my son. I had so much for which to be thankful. He was the light.
I still need to write one to my mom. I fear this will be the most difficult. But without her, I would not be, and that is something good, I think.
He invited three photos. One was the wedding photo of my mother’s second marriage. It featured her, him, Aunt Bubbles, and my favourite uncle, Jim. I’d posted this in 2013. Five years ago. While I was busy cleaning out my flat and starting to pack for my move to New Orleans. I’d also posted a lengthy description underneath the photo.
“In going through my desk drawers (gosh...they hold a deceptively large amount of stuff!) I found a letter I had written to my stepfather in 2004.
My letter of apology. Where I had to let go of all the anger and hate.
Because, despite his abuse, mental, physical, and sexual, my life has not been awful, nor particularly bad, or even just okay.
In this letter, written to him after his death, I thanked him for all the good things he did for our family.
For all the great vacations, some one month long.
For his help in teaching me to ride a bicycle, and for his help with my algebra and geometry homework. Ugh.
He was at every single concert, recital, and contest. (I am a classically trained flautist.)
My letter of apology. Where I had to let go of all the anger and hate.
Because, despite his abuse, mental, physical, and sexual, my life has not been awful, nor particularly bad, or even just okay.
In this letter, written to him after his death, I thanked him for all the good things he did for our family.
For all the great vacations, some one month long.
For his help in teaching me to ride a bicycle, and for his help with my algebra and geometry homework. Ugh.
He was at every single concert, recital, and contest. (I am a classically trained flautist.)
He taught me how to shoot, too. Both a shotgun and a camera.
Reading the letter again made me remember, but not the bad things. Only the good. And how lovely if he could be here to see how I have embraced his pastime. He gave me my first Instamatic. :-) He was a splendid photographer, especially of landscapes.
He traveled a lot. Especially the American West, southwest and northwest. I probably got my love of travel from him, too.”
I got some very mixed comments. Most said how kind I was, such a good person, how wise. A few thought I was crazy to forgive him. (My constant readers know I was forgiving him for the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse.) I tried to respond with equal graciousness to everyone. I did understand how some would think me daft; I thought it, too, some days.
But I was at peace. For awhile.
And then Harvey Weinstein happened. And that segued into #metoo. I was angry and sad and felt victimised once more. I forgot my forgiveness.
I forgot it so much that I only remembered it when I looked at the photo again today.
Was my apology not real? Was it just a phase? What did that say about me?
What it said it that I’m human. And like most humans, I needed to find a way to reconcile my past with my present, find a way to move forward, to be able to hold onto the good things in my past, of which there were more than a few, and try to not let the darkness and pain overwhelm me.
But I don’t think forgiveness is a science. It’s fluid and it expands and contracts. If you want to talk about your god and forgiveness in a religious context, that’s another topic. I’m talking about human forgiveness. Or more specifically, this human’s ability to forgive.
I reread my words. Who knows where my actual letter to my father could be. It might have been put in the toss pile by accident or it might me in my file cabinet in a mislabeled folder.
The point is, my apology still stands. I still need to have that in place so I can keep moving forward. It’s imperative to my continued experimenting and experiencing. But it might wane now and then. I might forget about it in a couple of years. But it will still be there. As will my gratitude for all the good things in my life.
I also wrote a letter to my son. I had so much for which to be thankful. He was the light.
I still need to write one to my mom. I fear this will be the most difficult. But without her, I would not be, and that is something good, I think.
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| forgiveness 1962 family photo; my edit ©Trish Korous |
like other experiences we sometimes put the bad experiences in a separate little box in our brains. sometimes the box can stay closed, and sometimes, when there is a trigger, the little box pops open.
ReplyDeletemy friend said it the same re a bad experience she had with here partner. she caught him fooling around with another woman.
they worked it out and went on.
he commented later to her that he was glad she could forgive him. and she said..."all I can do is live with this, and put it aside, but I will never completely forget. it's back there, and if something similar happens, I will remember it all."
all we can do it try to keep the box closed. living happy helps.
Thank you for your always thoughtful comments. They’re much appreciated. x
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