Bryan’s Blog: CONFESSIONS
confessions
October 7, 2000
Bryan James
Friends, I need to tell you that this will be my last blog entry. I’m sorry to abandon you but it’s time for me to move on. So consider these my parting words of confession.
I broke off my affair today. Take it from me: that kind of thing never has a pretty ending. Maybe ten or twenty years down the line I’ll be able to take it out of the box and examine it like an old love letter. But right now it’s too razor sharp to handle.
Confession: It’s not half as difficult for me as it is for her. I’ve always had someone to go back to. F. is all alone. Yet she had the strength to let me off the hook. She could have made me squirm but she didn’t. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be.
Confession: I never have a plan. I react to circumstances and reshape myself to fit them. When things go bad I morph into something new to get away. But that’s over now. I’ve used up my quota of second chances.
Confession: I’m the lucky one in all of this. I’ve never been alone. I’ve always had G. even when we were at war with each other. I’ve always had Sahara – in the flesh and always since in spirit. I had F. for a season when I was in need.
And I can’t forget about the stone walls. I had that icon to come back to year after year. It was my saving grace. And yes, I do see the irony in those words. But I won’t be going back there anymore. My place is here for better or for worse.
The sum total of all the truths I’ve come face to face with is this: Forgiveness is not something we can own. We borrow it for awhile and then pass it on to someone else. And so, friends, I pass it on to you, along with these ageless words of wisdom:
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have I the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock