An open call on the High Holy Days,
On an eerily quiet morning, as neighborhood dogs slept and birds kept safely to their nests, a song began in my dreams and carried into my consciousness: “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me anymore.” Don Henley’s 1989 hit coursed through me. Family lore spoke of the power of dreams and lessons attaching themselves to us upon waking, and openness was key to deciphering the code.
Fumbling through the mix of psychology textbooks, clinical progress notes, to-do lists, and gooey substances upon my nightstand I found my iPhone. I was greeted by seven missed messages from a male colleague, whose company I enjoyed fabulously on a number of occasions. His tone was frantic, content angered, and feelings dejected. I couldn’t hide behind the dark curtains of my broken reality anymore. It was time to peel back the layers and reconcile.
Inhaling, I called and was greeted by silence. When he talked I listened, admitting that the mirror he held to my soul revealed a connoisseur for “The Game.” Begging for vindication, he cut my soul, “Wow. It took you this long?” Click. Pause. Silence. I scarcely see the morning of that bitter sorrow, but from time to time, I hear his virulent malice not granting my release. It’s that moment of wanting release that chains me, shackling me to memories of his charm, wit, celestial balance and life philosophy.
The greatest gift given by growth is awareness. I became astutely aware that I was responsible for forgiving myself. That no words from a man, woman, or even from HaShem would heal me. Forgiveness begins with pure intent, transformation comes through facing fears, and healing starts when we give ourselves permission to do so. Action is required.