forgive and forget

I have been thinking of forgiveness. I told a friend lately that I had forgiven my ex-husband for everything he had done, even though I haven't actually told him this personally. As soon as I spoke the words out loud I felt a sense of release, a rush of sorts, that I have this power within me to let it all go. Later I wondered if I really had forgiven him for everything, and if so, what does this actually mean? Could I still allow myself a good silent cry at night at the thought of being single once again? Am I still allowed to be angry with him once in a while when I feel overwhelmed and burdened by single parenthood? Can I forgive AND forget? Not likely, well not without a little self-induced amnesia. I feel like I have the capacity to forgive but without truly forgetting, the emotion stirs just under the surface waiting for the slightest fissure in the foundation of my sanity to tunnel, split and reveal my inner everything. I am not sure I can forget, therefore I am not sure I will forgive. I desire the release of forgiveness, the freedom and the energy it will free up in my body. I want more than anything to feel a sense of relief from this burden I carry around during the day, and the pain I nurse during the night. I long to be rid of this sense of hatred and frustration, I long for peace. There is a quote that inspires me to look further into this forgiveness bit, it goes like this: "Peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart". I understand that there will always be people that hurt me, piss me off, inflict damage, but I long for peace, I long to move through it all and forgive. I long for release from these goddamn humanoid inconveniences: jealousy, hurt, rejection, anger. I forgive you for all of it. I forgive but will not forget. I will take these moments and stitch them to my faded jeans. Patches to cover the holes, piece the wreck back together, give rise to a new texture. I will forgive you for tearing my favorite jeans, I will not forget that you borrowed them without asking me first.

Holiday

I wish I could skip right past Christmas this year. Move ahead to March. A benign month, no depressing holidays to negotiate, there are no memories of March that torment me. Of course, the notion that one can just skip Christmas is ridiculous, Christmas is everywhere, it is in my car, in my grocery isle, wrapped around the local coffee kiosk like an absurd, well-lit shawl. My daughter, who is just beginning to collect her own Christmas stories, is forcing me to reconcile mine: the good, the bad and the ugly, all carefully packed like ornaments in boxes. I imagine Christmases to be unwrapped and lined up on the mantle, each one telling a story of a year on its way out.


I have these memories of Christmas that haunt my mind each December as soon as I spy the first string of white lights of the season. He was a Christmas fanatic. Really, he loved the holidays, the tree, lights, he would arrange boughs on our fireplace mantle for days, moving out one, adding another. I would watch in amazement, in awe really, all the while growing more and more frustrated with his wacky technique of stringing the white lights on the bottom of the tree, with the color coming out on top. Some of our biggest fights revolved around Christmas lights, infamous winter storms that trapped us, frozen like monsters beneath a thick sheet of ice and we would sit and wait for the thaw to reunite with our honeymoon selves. It is because of all this that I find Christmas to be utterly worth skipping, year after year. It is more painful this year than last, because he is circling back to the man I once knew, the thoughtful, festive, bough designer. I try to make Christmas something else now, morph it away from the past, snapshots of years when I was happy, full of joy. Last year there was no joy. I was mortified each and every day with the knowledge that my husband was using his creative edge not for decorating fireplaces but for discovering new ways to stay warm during one of the coldest and snowiest winters in recent memory. Last year was my worst Christmas ever. I could not realize joy knowing my husband was hunkered down in a sleeping bag on the porch of an abandoned house, not sleeping, ever. Last year I shifted like sheets of ice between his situation and mine. His: homeless, cold, hungry, reused Starbucks coffee cup, to the point of it nearly falling apart into a pulpy mess. All for a quarter refill. I will never forget the look on each and every barista's face as they shifted their gaze from his pathetic cup, to his dirty, scroungy pile of belongings in the corner, to the two year old girl who proudly held his hand, then finally to me. Me? Hurried, flustered, emotionally spent, beyond judgement, almost. I switched our meeting grounds from yuppie coffee shops to the anonymity of a fast food restaurant. We met at a KFC just before Christmas so he could see his daughter and give her the presents he had collected for her. A few stuffed animals, donated clothes, some strange knickknacks that only a two year old could find magical. For me: a new pair of Columbia tennis shoes, donated. Carefully selected by the husband for the wife who walked out six months earlier with all of her shoes in a plastic garbage bag. Lotions, a scarf, more tokens of his kindness for wife and child. A wife's gift for her estranged husband? Divorce papers, a Starbucks gift card, a plate of pity with a side of rejection. My husband? Marched on with his pride, his dirty sleeping bag, while his past loaded up a car with shame, sadness and depression and drove on. Two poles pulling further apart. Spinning on the same axis, but ending up in different worlds.