-for Jesse Thistle
When you say you are sorry (from your heart), you open the door to a room within. A cool, peaceful space where breezes blow in the half-open window and green leaves brush against the glass. You enter and sit in your chair and yellow sun slants across your face, and there are no distractions. You’ve begun to understand pain – being hurt and hurting others. You’ve started to make space for it, and as a consequence, find yourself here in this room where pain can 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.