Forgiveness « WillSpirit!

After nearly two weeks in the foothills near Yosemite, we returned to the Bay Area Sunday. Toward the end of the visit I was feeling discouraged, as my posts made clear.

My lack of purpose after the demise of the acupuncture business was hitting home. The book project softens that a little, but the right formula eludes me. So far the prose sounds like my least successful blogging: too wordy and intellectual. Lyrical description of the richness and lessons of my experiences may be beyond my ability.

Recent essays expressed remorse about my relationship with my father. Through writing here and after corresponding with my aunt, I eventually moved past that. But there remained a shadow of sadness.

The neck pain and the bad news from the recent MR scan weighed on me. I felt lonely, too.

In short, I was stuck in the familiar place of self-criticism, fear, and discouragement.

Then, on one of our last nights in the forest, something shifted inside. Peace returned.

Whenever I feel defeated the same phrase comes to mind: “God, help me.” This must be the most common human prayer, and although I don’t often believe the cosmos listens, I say it anyway. The words feel comforting, despite their futility. This time, to my relief, I heard a voice speak in a loving tone near my left shoulder: I’m right here!

Maybe I was half asleep and slipping into hypnogogic hallucination. Maybe my own thoughts rose to audibility. Regardless, I felt reassured. Why question the source? Whatever conscious presence exists in the universe, I’m convinced it arises from the depths of matter. It is not something separate from life; it is something integral to it. So if it shows up at all, it must come by way of ordinary neural pathways. Why distinguish between a dream, a thought, or the voice of God? If it feels divine, I choose to accept it as such and not worry about its provenance.

In the calm aftermath of that simple phrase uttered by something that cares, my sense of purpose became clear. I decided that since the material world no longer seems to cooperate with me, I might as well focus on the spiritual. I could even interpret the way the cosmos has frustrated my plans as God pushing me to commit to the mystical path. At times over the years I’ve glimpsed truth and entered resonant states of mind. Why not quit trying to achieve in the human sphere and instead seek awakening with all my heart and soul?

In truth, I’ve run out of options. I will either find relief through higher consciousness, or find no relief at all. And yes, I’ve been working toward realization for a long time, but not as my primary goal.

Writing still feels important, but I’m viewing it as a means to an end. It helps me make progress toward grounding in life, love, and meaning. It isn’t a project in the usual sense of the word, whether I’m working on the blog, the book, or my poetry. Writing is the road rather than the destination.

Deep down, I know with utter conviction that peace awaits, provided I get serious about taking the needed steps. This means abandoning striving for success. Instead, I will concentrate on taking care of my body, building my meditative skills, and healing my heart. It is time, at last, to journey inward toward the Light.

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The last post bemoaned my failure to love my father properly despite his faults. In fairness to myself, I must emphasize that he did not make love easy. But although that’s a reasonable excuse, with increased spiritual grounding I can no longer fall back on it. At the same time, there’s no point in wallowing forever in remorse.

Soon after writing that piece, I prayed under the stars for an hour, begging forgiveness for everything I’ve done that’s hurt anyone, ever. I understand God as something that arises from within, not without. So with genuine remorse, praying may not be necessary. But it can’t hurt. Gazing at the stars shining out of the clear mountain night, I tried to recall as many missteps as I could. In addition to the times I hurt loved ones, I also feel terrible about the patients who were injured by my mistakes. Errors were especially common during medical training, but also cropped up occasionally in later practice. My list of sins was painful to behold, but the ritual helped me feel freer. With that release I hope to quit beating myself up about what happened with my dad or any past error. I did the best I could. It wasn’t that great a performance, but it was all I could muster at the time. I believe it’s OK to move on.

The next morning I received an email from a reader, Trabel, who offered an interesting take on the book my dad gave me at that last visit, a text about corruption within the medical establishment. Her analysis makes sense to me; I share an excerpt with her permission:

There could be another possible interpretation of this last encounter with your father. Taking into consideration the title of the book he offered to you, it may be implied that he wanted to give you a warning about the deadly abyss of the medical system to which you were heading right in …

He had an empirical, realistic way of thinking, I can imagine; he also witnessed how your mother lost herself in the “health care” system (he saw not only her, maybe) – and by giving this book to you, he may have wanted to tell you “Do not let yourself get lost in this system! Don’t rely on them – find your way all by yourself!”

My father was indeed worried about the psychiatric drugs and their negative effects on my weight and clarity of thought. He did not like the way I was taking on the illness role and shrinking from engagement. And he did feel anger toward the psychiatrists who contributed to my mother’s decline and death. So it makes sense the book may have been meant as a warning.

Since I would have been resistant to his opinion stated outright, giving a book might have felt like his best option. A few years later I donated his present to our local library thrift shop without having read it—the book caused me pain just sitting on the shelf. I regret that decision and plan to track down the text and read it now, to honor my father and his last gift to me.

My dad made mistakes that caused lifelong problems for his children. The root problem was alcoholism. He knew he was an alcoholic, but he refused to seek treatment. He openly acknowledged that he drank to escape life’s pain; he could not imagine facing his demons sober. His fatalism in the face of his addiction may have been the most tragic fact of his life.

As I forgive myself for my shortcomings, I continue to work on forgiving my father. My recent writings have forced me to realize the scars remain more tender than I knew. Healing the past is an ongoing process, as perhaps it will always be…

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