I ought to be driving to Lodi right now. I intended to be among the first to sign the list for lab work. Instead, I have read news, eaten breakfast, scrolled through social media, and gazed out of the window at the speckles of rain.
Last night, I dreamed that I got a phone call from someone whom I used to know. The disembodied voice in the hazy gloom of my sleeping brain told me that I needed to call a person who did me harm, for purposes of extending forgiveness. The caller insisted that my forgiveness stood between the wrong-doer and happiness. I woke before my subconscious responded to the entreaty.
I stumbled around the house in an unsettled state. I thought about the concept of expressing that I hold no malice. In my dream, I got the sense that actual forgiveness did not matter; that I only had to tender words of absolution. My thoughts trailed from there to a state of wondering about my feelings. Have I forgiven? If so, could I say that out loud? We easily scribble “sorry.. . thank you. . . welcome” at the bottom of Hallmark cards. But what emotions underlie the expressions? Does deft articulation substitute for sincerity?
I scrambled eggs, drank re-warmed coffee, and watched yesterday’s Anderson360. Now I have to dress and head east. I haven’t gotten a blood draw since November. For all I know, these troubled reveries stem from nothing more than a lack of oxygen. Just in case, I’m taking precautions. I’m packing bottled water, an extra jacket, and a phone charger. You never know. On the other hand, if last night’s dream signals that my own soul yearns for peace, I’m saying this now: I forgive you.
It’s the first day of the sixty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.