I've been reading through all kinds of old papers, looking for new insights about my dad and grandfather. Buddha said that carrying one's anger is like holding a burning-hot stone in your hand--I'm hoping that new understanding will help me finally trade the hot weight of resentment for the cool water of forgiveness, running lightly across my fingers.
I recently got another gift--letters from me to a friend, who had carefully saved them over the years. When I read through them, I felt the old familiar flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. This always happens when I read back over things I've written long ago. I begin to judge myself: how could I have been so superficial, or pitiful, or naive, or [fill in the blank with whatever other critical adjective you can come up with]?
It may be that Dad's not the only one I need to forgive. Forgiving myself may be the hardest task of all. And the most important.
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