I have asked myself time and again, if given the chance, what would I have done differently, would I have loved less men? Would I have taken less risks? Would I not commit words to page?
My life is free of regrets. I seek no confession nor do I entreat anyone for forgiveness.
I forgive myself all my mistakes.
Do I wish that in order to walk I had not fallen down, and kept on falling down until my feet mastered the physic of balance?
I forgive myself all my foibles and secret indulgences.
If I had not loved deeply, would I have learned the immensity of my heart and that love never dies, it just gets transfered.
I forgive myself the revenges I plotted, the people I wrote off.
Did I not learn that I could be as evil as the most brutal serial killer, and that pain and fear are blinders that shut out joy and grace?
I forgive myself the little and big unmindful acts I have done, the spiteful things I have said about others, the envy I feel of more successful writers, and the innumerable petty ways to which I sometimes resort.
Is there no value in measuring oneself against others, in sometimes wallowing in the mud like pig so you can enjoy the clean feeling after a long, hot bath, and isn't there the sweet comfort that comes from reading someone else's work and laughing out loud on the train, on the plane, or crying alone in bed because the story wrapped and held you captive in its arms?
Yes forgive me, and forgive me again. For as long as I live I will need your forgiveness. And while you are at it, forgive yourself and love me with tender passion.
Causes Opal Adisa Supports
California Poets in the Schools
Homeless Shelter for Pregnant Women