Few things in life are more painful than seeing ourselves act in ways orthogonal to our own values, watching helplessly as the consequences of those actions ripple out and hurt others, jolting us awake from the dream of perfection. Even the saints among us are vulnerable to this fundamental fallibility, for the measure of our humanity may be the distance, and the aching awareness of the distance, between our ideal selves and our real selves. In the wake of it, after the futile wish for an undo button has burned itself out, we find in its ashes one thing only: Trembling with desire for forgiveness and self-forgiveness, we long for an apology so vast and powerful as to subsume the irreversibility of time — an apology grand enough to allay all the vulnerabilities of being human, fallible, and famished for connection.
That longing comes alive in this consolation of a poem by Ellen Bass: Cook a large fish — choose one with many bones, a skeleton you will need skill to expose, maybe the flying silver carp that’s invaded the Great Lakes, tumbling the others into oblivion. If you don’t live near a lake, you’ll have to travel. Walking is best and shows you mean it, but you could take a train and let yourself be soothed by the rocking on the rails.
It’s permitted to receive solace for whatever you did or didn’t do, pitiful, beautiful human. When my mother was in the hospital, my daughter and I had to clear out the home she wouldn’t return to. Then she recovered and asked, incredulous, How could you have thrown out all my shoes?
You could rent or buy, but, for the sake of repairing the world, build your own. Thin strips of Western red cedar are perfect, but don’t cut a tree. There’ll be a demolished barn or downed trunk if you venture further.
And someone will have a mill. And someone will loan you tools. The perfume of sawdust and the curls that fall from your plane will sweeten the hours.
Each night we dream thirty-six billion dreams. In one night we could dream back everything lost. Unharness yourself from your weary stories.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
