Notes on Forgiveness

Let the heart be moved again

I: Seeking Forgiveness

Gratefully, I look back on my life thus far without regret. I have never hurt anyone with intention. Still, there were times I was envious, or selfish, or pushed compassion aside for satisfaction. Looking around at my life now, prioritising kindness and friendship more than I ever have, I recognise gaps in the past where I could have done better. I was the oldest daughter, the bottler of feelings, and the representative of sensitivity. I wanted praise and validation from my elders, sometimes at the cost of true friendships I failed to recognise. I was always in search of myself. Perhaps I was never in a position to seek forgiveness, but understanding — though, in a way, I believe that to be forgiveness too.

My dad and I always seemed to speak a different language. When I felt like he wasn’t listening to me (or, worse, like he was proving me wrong), I’d abandon the conversation and leave the room. My younger sister, a feisty conversationalist, is the opposite. When I was in high school, I ran a guidance column in our newspaper. Upon publishing an article on the power of listening, my middle school asked me to come and talk to students about the topic. My sister, who was in the room, later used this against me during an argument where I was being given criticism. How ironic that you gave a talk about listening but won’t even listen to us yourself. I was hurt, but deep down, I knew she was right. How can I ever expect someone to understand me if I don’t put in the effort to understand them in return? Dad and I have three-hour phone calls now. Sometimes we disagree, but we always make an effort to learn from each other. I stay on the phone until we come to a conclusion. It’s always worth it. I used to leave the room in anger — but now I hang up with love. I am trying to make up for the times I left him alone in the living room.

Frank O’Hara, “Poem”:

Light     clarity     avocado salad in the morning 
after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is 
to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness
since what is done is done and forgiveness isn't love
and love is love nothing can ever go wrong 
though things can get irritating boring and dispensable 
(in the imagination) but not really for love
though a block away you feel distant the mere presence
changes everything like a chemical dropped on a paper 
and all thoughts disappear in a strange quiet excitement 
I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing 

I was awkward and desperate to grow into myself. Much of my journals from middle and high school are full of complaints about the actions of people who didn’t mean to hurt me. Like my best friend not texting me back, or not being invited to a party, or a smart kid making me feel dumb in class. Life got so much better when I started to believe in dominant goodness. I got less mean. I learned to be patient. I began to value my friendships as they were instead of always being afraid I would lose them. For so long, I avoided the feelings of embarrassment and shame that came with being held accountable. I ran away from those important conversations. Once I sat with them, the world opened itself up to me.

I’m young, and I still have a long way to go. I still get annoyed and irritable — though, these days, I try to catch myself. I don’t expect to live a life without making mistakes or hurting anyone, but I hope I can develop relationships that allow me to make amends when I do. Mary Oliver wrote in “Dogfish”: Mostly, I want to be kind. And nobody, of course, is kind, / or mean, / for a simple reason. / And nobody gets out of it, having to / swim through the fires to stay / in this world.”

II: Outward Forgiveness

Franz Wright wrote in “Reparations”, “East Boston, 1966”:

The forgiveness! I know it
will be freely offered
or it won’t, and that is all—
and no one may bestow it
on himself.
If it is to come
it will come of itself like a separate
being,
a mystery, working
unseen as a wind causes still
leaves or water to move once again.
And hide me in the shadow of Your wings.

Let the heart be moved again.

I will be the first to admit that my heart is quite fragile. I tear up when the light hits a certain way, or when I read a poem written by a six-year-old. I think about what’s broken my heart throughout my life, and several examples come to mind, but I wonder if they were amplified by my own sensitivity. Kids were mean to me growing up. I was made fun of for my body hair and my overactive imagination. I remember walking into my fifth-grade classroom to my peers tallying up who was the “weirdest” in the class, with the most votes under my name. I laughed it off, but I wish I cried. That night, I wrote in my journal, recognising the cruelty of their actions, but still having reason to believe the conclusion was justified. The next day, I went back to school and played with everyone at recess with my head held high, trying not to “let it get to me”, as I was always told to do. I never understood why — you can never let go of something until it reaches you. It all caught up with me a few years later. It was seventh grade, and I did not like myself. Later, upon reflection, I realised that no one else liked themselves either. We are all struggling to fill the shells of our bodies at that age. I look at my peers and how they’ve grown, and the layers it took them through to become good and kind people, and confidently so. I didn’t need to fight back or bottle up my feelings to heal. In many cases, I didn’t even need an apology. I just needed to hold the hurt in my hands, study it, and let it go.

I’ve had heartbreaks as an adult, too, though not many. Some are as small as running for the bus only to have it drive away, or not getting a birthday wish from a valued friend. Others were bigger. I had a big falling out with a close friend of five years. It was a cluster of miscommunication, and attempts at closure weren’t successful. Ultimately, I think we just became different people in a short period, and it shattered before us all at once. The conversation was left open-ended, and I haven’t heard from her in four years. At first, I was hurt at how easily she gave up our friendship. I questioned if I could have done more to make it better, and grappled with how to move on with all the memories we made together. My choice to forgive wasn’t conscious. It arrived, like Franz Wright says, as a “separate / being, a mystery, working / unseen”, parallel with my individual growth. One day, I looked at the life I had built since and felt only love for what I had — not grief for what I had lost. I use the lessons I learned to develop my current friendships, which I cherish for being as open and vulnerable as they are. It was then I realised I had already forgiven.

by Holly Stapleton

Outward forgiveness can be complicated, and different religions and ways of thinking have their respective definitions. I used to think of forgiveness to be a form of surrender, and I held resentment toward people and situations out of respect for myself. Forgiveness should always be a choice aligned with acceptance and empowerment. In my case, resentment was like a veil over a memory. It hindered the tenderness of nostalgia, and only through letting go was I able to find joy to replace it. I sat with my pain. I did what I needed to turn it into joy, and then I danced with it.

No one is obligated to forgive, but everyone deserves to heal. Humans are capable of horrible things, far worse than I’ve experienced. Perhaps it is easier to forgive the past as a whole instead of the individuals who may not be deserving. It’s a personal choice, and always dependent on the situation, but remember: this is for you. Forgiveness is a selfish act. You close the wound so the skin can be kissed.

Mary Oliver wrote in “A Settlement”:

Look, it's spring. And last year's loose dust has turned into this 
soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come up trembling, 
slowly the brackens are up-lifting their curvaceous and pale 
bodies. The thrushes have come home, none less than filled
with mystery, sorrow, happiness, music, ambition. 

And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to go and 
no task undertaken but to turn the pages of this beautiful world
over and over, in the world of my mind. 

Therefore, dark past, 
I'm about to do it. 
I'm about to forgive you 

for everything. 

III: Inward Forgiveness

I remember waking up on New Year’s Day in 2020 with a deep sense of discomfort. It was as if I was suddenly aware of my entire life, and trapped under the realisation that each decision I have ever made was the wrong one. Like I was standing on the edge of my life. In the car with my dad later that day, driving through the uncertain fog of a new year, he gave me a metaphor that changed my perspective. Consider the rearview mirror. If we rely on it too much, or too little, we’d either crash or never move at all. It’s not there to guide us forward. We look into it to survey what’s around us, and with that knowledge, we move on. For example, when you miss an exit, trying to get back to it can be dangerous. Let it grow farther away behind you, and take the next one. You’ll get back on track eventually.

I held too many grudges, most of them toward my past and present selves. I blamed myself for feeling pain, for not apologising, for not demanding apologies, for not communicating well enough, for not making the most of my time, for letting something go too quickly, for saying that one thing that one time. My memory will take me down all those roads again, and the ghost of remorse will remain. Did I address the hurt? Did I listen to it? If yes, I’ll keep driving. I can always look back, with a flick of the head. Just to check.

I’ve kept a journal since I was eight years old. Sometimes, when I’m home, I go through them. A few years ago, I threw out my journal from seventh grade, hoping that with it gone, that self would cease to exist. There were pages of desperation, of shame, of cruelty, of deep sadness. I wish I still had it. I forgive you, I want to say, with each turn of a page. I forgive you.

From “Love Letters” by Victoria Chang:

If you don't forgive yourself, 
tomorrow will still arrive. So you 
might as well forgive yourself.

Recently, I’ve had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning. I set my alarm for 8:30 and sleep through it. If I have no plans for the day, I’ll punish myself for sleeping in by sleeping more. Sometimes I stay in bed until four in the afternoon. That’ll teach you, I say. It never does. I feel guilty for wasting time in a beautiful city, for not waking up early and going for a walk, or finally writing that thing, or making myself breakfast instead of an early lunch. Nothing works like self-forgiveness. Those three magic words to my tired mind. I forgive myself, and then I forgive myself for not forgiving myself earlier. Then, I go on that golden hour stroll to the park, or speed walk to the farmer’s market minutes before it closes. Sometimes I just make tea. That’s okay too. It’s a life, still, and it’s mine to live.

There was a point in my life when I carried shame everywhere. Forgiving it all, slowly, felt like shedding layers of weighted fabric. How can I live with myself? It’s not that you can. It’s that you must. Regardless. So forgive yourself, again, and again, and again, and again. As many times as it takes.

“March” by Chelsea DesAutels:

I walk out & it's still not spring. I watch the blackbirds 
over the lake & the lake is melting but it's still not spring. 
The ice is leathered islands. The soil sings the past. 
This season is thick with thaw & wet brown mud—
the work of transformation. Like God, I suppose. 
A runner passes in a red coat & I stop at the same bridge
I stopped yesterday & the day before that. It's where I turn
around. If March were a poem, she'd be a crown of sonnets, 
spinning forward & circling back. If God were a poem, 
God would be the twelfth line. The breath before the answer. 
If heaven were real we'd know it like the blackbirds 
know it's nearly time to nest. In our bones, Like God, 
I'm waiting to swim. Like you, I keep walking toward
forgiveness, maybe tomorrow, the earth is softening. 

---

This may have been inspired by my watching of Beef on Netflix, but I will not confirm or deny that fact. Either way, It was probably the most difficult newsletter I’ve written. I’d love to know your thoughts.

<3

Tara