When you say from your heart that you are sorry, then you’ve found a room within where the door is slightly ajar and the window partially open, and soft, green tree leaves brush against the glass and yellow sun slants in and your chair is still warm. The room within – a quiet place with no distractions, where you live in relative peace with yourself. If you are sorry from your heart, you understand the pain of being hurt and the pain of hurting others. You have made space for your pain to live side by side with your heart. You have forgiven yourself.
When you say you are sorry, a door opens and something new begins. The door may open to a different place where sad stories and tragedies fill only a few rooms in a great, sprawling house. A house also filled with laughter and the smells of supper cooking, the quiet murmur of voices in prayer. Someone’s fingers tapping on a keyboard, writing a story; someone else singing, another sewing. Listen to the sounds of children practicing their language. Hear them running in and out of the house, playing hide and seek in a field, gathering wood for the bonfire. They remember and dream as you do, memories and dreams of their own; mysteries falling from the stars, sparks of light shimmering among trees in summer. This house has always been here. But you belonged to a people that painted over the door. A whole other life. You never saw it until now.