Coming Home

Before we begin, three things — and they matter more than anything that follows. [pause] One: nothing here is required. You set the pace, you choose what to open, and you can stop at any moment. [pause] Two: your eyes can stay open if that feels safer tonight — soft, toward the floor. [pause] Three: if anything becomes too much, lower your hand, and one of us will come and sit with you, or walk you out to the quiet room. There is no wrong way to do this. [long pause]

Now — get comfortable on the floor. Let the ground take your full weight. [pause] Feel where your body touches it: heels, hips, the back of your head. The earth is holding you; you don't have to hold yourself. [pause] Breathe in slowly… [pause] and out, longer than the in. [long pause]

We're going to take a journey tonight — gently, and only as far as you want to go. We're going home. Not the home you live in now. The home you grew up in. [long pause]

In your mind, stand outside the door of your childhood home. [pause] Notice it. The color of it. The handle. The sound it made when it opened. [pause] You're safe here — you're a grown person now, just visiting, and you can leave whenever you choose. [long pause]

Open the door, and step in. [pause] The smell of it. The light. The particular quiet, or noise, of that house. [long pause]

Somewhere in that house is the person we came to see. Your mother. Or your father. Or whoever it was that shaped the wound you've carried. [pause] But we are not going to find them as the tall, powerful figure you remember. [long pause]

We're going to find them as a child. [pause] Before they were your parent. Before they were anyone's parent. [pause] Picture them at five, or six, or seven years old. [long pause]

See the child they were. [pause] Small. Their feet not reaching the floor of the chair. [pause] See what they were afraid of. See what they needed and didn't get. [pause] See the parents they had, and the soil they were planted in — the hardness, the absence, the things done to them that they never chose and never healed. [long pause]

This is not to excuse anything. [pause] What hurt you, hurt you, and it mattered. [pause] It is only to see the truth: the person who wounded you was once a wounded child themselves — passing on what was passed to them, doing the only thing their own unhealed ground taught them to do. [long pause]

— silence —

Look at that child. [pause] Is there anything in you — even a little — that can feel for them? Not for what they did. For who they were, before they did it. [long pause]

If there is, let it be there. [pause] If there isn't, that is all right too. You are not failing. Compassion cannot be forced; it can only be allowed. Some of you will feel it tonight. Some of you in a month. Some things take longer, and are no less real for it. [long pause]

Now, if you're ready — and only if you're ready — there is one thing you can set down tonight. [pause] Not the memory. Not the truth of what happened. [pause] The grievance. The daily carrying of it. The way it climbs into bed with you at three in the morning. [long pause]

Forgiveness is not saying it was okay. [pause] It is not reconciliation — you owe no one a phone call, a visit, or another chance. [pause] Forgiveness is simply this: deciding that what they did no longer gets to run your garden. It is a gift you give yourself, and its name is freedom. [long pause]

If you want to, say it inside — to the child you've been watching: I release you. [pause] I release you. [pause] Not because it didn't matter. Because I am done carrying it. [long pause]

— silence —

And now — turn, gently, and find one more person in that house. [pause] Yourself. The child you were. [pause] See them. [pause] Whatever they've been blamed for — by others, by you — see how small they were, how much they were only trying to be loved, and safe. [pause] Is there a word of kindness you could say to that child? [pause] Say it now. [long pause]

You've done enough. [pause] More than enough. [pause] Let the house go, softly. Step back out the door. Close it gently behind you — you can always return, on your own terms. [long pause]

Come back to the floor. [pause] The weight of your body on the ground. [pause] The breath. The people around you, who just did one of the bravest things a person can do — went home, and came back freer. [pause] Feel your hands. Feel your feet. [pause] And when you're ready — no rush at all — open your eyes. [pause] The paper is beside you. When you're ready, and not before, we'll write.