Forgiveness – A Work of the Heart

“I am the carrier of the whole human project. In each of us then is the liar, the lecturer, the thief, the criminal, the murderer, and shockingly, maybe even the saint as well.” James Hollis, A Life of Meaning

 “Endure, my heart.”

This is what Odysseus, the warrior who had fought in the Trojan war and confronted every imaginable peril at sea and on land, said to himself back to Ithaca, realizing that his greatest danger awaited him there – in his own kingdom.  

This is how we may urge ourselves on when, having been through many of life’s upheavals, we know that the worst is yet to come – when someone has wounded us so deeply that they brought us to our knees, leaving us on the very brink of despair.

We may shout, swear, threaten, cry, pound the walls with our fists, tear our hair out, scream how much we hate that person, how much we wish them dead (yeah, that too) – anything, anything to silence the suffering, if only for a few brief moments.

And who can blame us? 

Amid all that chaos, there is one idea – and one idea only – which, surrounded by a golden aura, will bend close and whisper to us:

“Listen, I know this is tough on you. I really do. You didn’t deserve this mess. If I were you, I’d never, and I mean never, forgive that person. Tsk…Just saying.”  

This is the song of the Sirens that we need to resist: the seductive pledge never to forgive someone.

The pledge insinuates itself into our mind with an illusory sense of control, power and relief: “I will punish them with my hatred for ever. It’s the least I can do. And, man, doesn’t it feel good?”  

Once branded into our hearts, this vow will act like a disease: quietly but steadily altering our inner peace, our genuine capacity for love, joy, hope, trust, compassion and empathy.

Ignore it, laugh at it, run from it – its echo will surely find you: in your dreams, in the silence at the end of your impossibly busy schedule, beyond all your accolades and perfect public image, beyond all your quick fixes: compulsive cleaning or organizing, relentless exercise, excessive shopping, overeating, alcohol, sex, gambling, constant entertainment, binge-watching television, over-socializing. It may eventually find its way into your bodies as physical symptoms: fatigue, migraines, allergies, grinding teeth, clenched jaws, a persistent knot in the stomach.

“There are many ways of dying,” argues Jamie Hollis in his must-read book, A Life of Meaning.

I wonder whether living with such a deep malaise is one of them.

Now, let’s think about the alternative: unless we are saints, it may still take us years, even decades, to heal.

The struggle is no picnic. Actually, I won’t sugarcoat this: it’s pretty bad.

But let’s be clear: there is a fundamental difference between “I can’t forgive someone” and “I won’t forgive someone.”  

The former is a clean, honest statement – a testimony of pain that doesn’t trap us within forever.

It leaves the door to our heart slightly ajar and, in time, something only vaguely anticipated may happen: an idea – with no golden aura – may timidly enter through that tight opening, bend close and whisper:

“Listen, I know what happened still hurts, but it’s been a while now. And it’s not getting any better, is it? So, maybe it’s time you started considering another option. Like, I don’t know, forgiving this person? Just saying…”   

We’ll suddenly feel as if we’ve been jolted into a fast, tumultuous river.

“Wait, what? No, no, no…I still can’t do this… They don’t deserve to be forgiven. There’s no excuse for what they did to me! None, ok? If anything, I’m reconsidering the afterlife. There may be heaven and hell after all, and hell is particularly relevant for a certain category of people I know…I won’t give names out of modesty. You can give me that.”

The more we extend our self-righteous monologue while trying to grab hold of black logs hurtling in the water, the more exhausted and bruised we become. 

“How do I get safely on the shore?” we ask ourselves, over and over again, much to our chagrin.

When our strength fails us, we slowly sink beneath the surface. And there, with eyes wide open in the murky water, we stare at our shadow.

Here they are – all the times when we shamelessly betrayed, lied to and took advantage of others.

We did it all, didn’t we?

Don’t we want to be forgiven, too?

It is then that we surface, our lungs burning, gasping desperately for air, spluttering, coughing. And weeping – with remorse, humility and a deep compassion not only for ourselves, but for human fraility and fallability. 

We’ll let ourselves be carried away by the river, trusting that we’ll reach the shore safely.

When the healing is over, we’ll know it.

I can share with you how I knew.

A few months ago, I was going about my usual routine on a Sunday like any other.  

There was no one wearing a colourful party hat going, “Surprise!” There were no fireworks in the sky either, announcing the big moment that was about to happen.

Out of the blue, as I exhaled, I found myself saying to myself:

“I forgive her.”

Instantly, my body felt lighter. Breathing felt easier.

I have felt free ever since.

I don’t know why and how this happened precisely then and there.  

What I do know is that we don’t forgive someone and then get amnesia: “Oh I have forgiven her, but I don’t remember what for. Isn’t it great?”

We don’t forgive someone and develop emotional perfection either: “Since then, I haven’t felt any shred of pain, anger, resentment whatsoever. Isn’t it great?”

As Hollis puts it, nothing that we’ve experienced will ever wholly leave us; what matters is that painful events lose their overbearing influence on us when we choose to bring our stories into conscious life.

This is how we start healing: by acknowledging our wound and our need to care for it.

Keep in mind that we cannot possibly force healing (so much for our need of control or perfectionism).

That’s why daily positive I-choose-happiness-no-matter-what mantras won’t help (unless you have plenty of time and a lively interest in self-experimentation).

We are all naturally endowed with the capacity to confront life’s ineluctable adversities.

And our lives are genuinely enriched only when we charter our way through pain, says Ulrich Baer in his introduction to one of Rilke’s fabulous collection of letters:

“Moving forward means moving with and through the pain rather than overcoming it.”

Remember that on this journey of self-transformation, we are not alone: we can count on the love and support of other people, especially our families, which is truly a blessing. 

Some of us, myself included, lean on our faith. When everything falls apart and our inner strength is no longer enough, Who can keep us from falling into dispair? Who, other than God, can help us forgive the unforgivable?

Some people move through pain without recourse to faith: they trust life itself. Perhaps they understand what Rilke beautifully explained about one century ago:

“You must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than you’ve ever seen (…). You must think that something is happening with you. That life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand. It will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness? Any miseries or any depressions? For, after all, you do not know what work these conditions are doing for you.”

Like Odysseus, the more struggles we endure, the more we realize how much we want and need to find our way back to our kingdom – the one within.

Further reading:

James Hollis, A Life of Meaning

Reiner Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Reiner Maria Rilke, The Dark Interval. Letters on Loss, Grief, and Transformation