Skip to main content

I Am Sorry


Family and Friends,

To those I love, have loved, may yet love in the life to come…I am sorry.

I am sorry this life is not what it should be.
I am sorry for your pain.

I am sorry that we are tired.

That the U and I of our union is too often the I and U of our triune existence, the battle between the self – our secrets - and being seen.

We are the loneliest of liars, even to ourselves.
We are all caveats and cliché, busy being;
that which we are, too often traded
for what we are in the face of what we are not.

I am sorry.

I wish I could tell you I think I am a fool. That I am sinful and scarred.
I wish I could tell you that I need you to think I am beautiful, that I am powerful, that I am strong. Dad look at me!

…That the words I am sacred, I am holy, only ring true to me in a hollow distant way, the way words spoken of others can be pretended over oneself…a remembering and wishing simultaneously.

I wish you could tell me you love me and that I am whole and that I could live in that, but I feel the weight, the needy beast of a thing that gnaws in me, hungering, ever hungering and wanting more….

I am sorry Mom that I don’t believe you when you say I am loved…. I believe you…but I believe you are loving a lie.

I am sorry Dad that I can’t find the strength to believe you when you say you are proud. I am not, I fear my own insignificance.

I am sorry, brothers, and sisters and friends when you tell me I am lovable, that I am the man who I am supposed to be for I fear you are wrong. I fear for all the things I never intended to be and yet am…. What does one do when he finds himself praised for his cleanliness only to know he is the only one with the power to turn on the lights?….

I am not dirty, not in the way you think…no more than the rest…but we are; together we are.

…Sitting in wait, hoping for wholesome wholeness and whole hearted rest…and yet we cry, we cry out to each other, we cling; we beggars begging beggars alms from other beggers outstretched arms.

We sing our songs of lament.

I am sorry.

But, what do we lament? …To whom do we sing?...To whom do we dance? Do we eat and drink for tomorrow we die? Or do we sing, and praise, and cry and love and lose, and hurt all in the hope that one day, someday, one day long in the future, longing will at long last subside…that there will be no more longing, no more tears.

I am sorry.

I am sorry that your pain is not met…. I am sorry that it doesn’t end today. I am sorry you and I are broken….

But what if that wasn’t the end? What if there were more? And what if even all this suffering, all this longing, all this dissatisfied disservice is just a moniker of an absence, a loss felt since time itself was young…. What if sorry could be forgotten?


Dear Love, I am not sorry. This is not the end. This is the chapter, before the beginning, the preface, the “in memory of”, the editor’s note….it is the nothing of the story that begins the longest of stories, the most joyous of journeys, the most perilous of perils to be overcome, the eternal life for which you were meant…that the end is not the end, the end, is the comma, then true life can begin. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Belieber:

So I finished watching that movie that was made about Justin Bieber the other night..yes I can admit it..it happened. And, I can admit I have seen worse movies. I wasn't caught by it. I'm not a Belieber and definitely didn't catch Bieber Fever, but I will say this. It made you believe in something. It was weird but when he was on the stage and there were thousands of overcome girls singing along, knowing all the words, and celebrating his music, his life, and somehow the something greater that was in him, it made me want the same thing. No, I don't want to be on stage, and I don't want tens of thousands of people screaming after me because they think I am the answer to the ache in their hearts. I'm becoming quit content in my nights alone and days at the sea side. No, I mean I want to be celebrated like that. I want to think that life is meant for something more than heartache and death. It feels like we should all be destined for such a place, a place where we...
Post a Comment
Read more

Fall

Fall is not an ideal time. It is gray and with more rain comes the morose veil of clouds that usher in the impending quiet of winter. Down cast days to down cast eyes. The colors on the trees visibly play herald to the time of year, the bright reds and gold of the newly lain carpet which wraps the earth in its yearly brilliant burial shroud reminds us, the sharp hint of ripeness on the air, the cold and silence of the nights. They all obstinately lay claim to the undeniable truth, the summer is over, death is come. Alber Camus one said that: In a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or hope of a promised land. The divorce between man and life, the actor and his setting is properly a feeling of absurdity. Camus’ here speaks of the painful knowledge that comes upon a person when hope is gone, when a world, once explained seems explained away, th...
Post a Comment
Read more