Finally, in a low whisper, he said, "I think I might be a terrible person." For a split second I believed him - I thought he was about to confess a crime, maybe a murder. Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.
- from The First Bad Man by Miranda July
I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness as of late. Of ourselves. Of each other. I've been hiding out a lot lately. I have also been hanging out with both people and contexts I'm not so used to yet.
I remember while living in Columbus, there would be nights that the entire house of six people I lived with would aim to go out to a show but, last minute, I would decide to stay behind. When I finally heard the last footstep go out of the door and the door be locked, I would pause in the sudden silence of a house that was always so loud. There would be the banter of my housemates as they walked away from the house, the muffled slamming of a car door outside, the start of an engine, then the car drifting off into the distance. The far away noises would be replaced by the shifting and creaking of the house- all of the sounds I was rarely able to hear. I would stand in my room and bask in them for a moment. They were insect-like in their life and movement.
Then, with a spark of excitement in my stomach, I would grab my book and blanket, go into my closet, climb upon its lowest, most sturdy shelf, and read.
Sometimes I would feel insecure about doing this. Never enough to not do it, but I was always vaguely aware that I was "supposed to go out on the weekends". I never really wanted to. I got enough "social scene" from the house and its members. I loved doing people's make up or cutting their hair or picking out their outfits before they went out, but, I never wanted to go to the ball, so to speak. Always a willing Cinderella enjoyably frozen in the moment just after her stepsisters left, and before the fairy godmother ever arrived.
In any case. I've been thinking about this, about these moments of solitude, because they doubled as these odd teeterings between being engaged socially and being in a space of total solitude and self reflection. My mind has been thinking of these moments and likening them to longer periods of time: Specifically, the periods of time that exist between hurt or betrayal, and forgiveness.
Forgiveness, of course, is never a given, and forgiveness can never really happen without time. I'm thinking a lot about what that time is filled with; how it unfolds. What compels a person to forgive someone? What compels a person to forgive themselves?
Compel, of course, is not the right word. I don't believe that one can be compelled to forgive. One can have an inclination, I suppose, but forgiveness is never a decision so much as it is a process. And that process happens in these moments, or collection of moments, that make up the period of time between hurt or betrayal and forgiveness.
What is involved in these periods of time is everything and nothing. Being by yourself. Being with other people. The mundane. The sublime. The social. The solitary. But no matter what is going on around you, the plates of your feelings are shifting. Things are changing, moving, solidifying into something you don't, entirely, have control over.
These periods of time are important. And no matter where the final shift places you in relation to forgiveness
they are something of the act of love
and thus
are
necessary.
be well; be loved,
k.
(image: Franco Kappl via lecollecteur tumblr)
No comments:
Post a Comment