“ When you refuse to apologize, it actually makes you feel more empowered. That power and control seems to translate into greater feelings of self-worth.
– Tyler G. Okimoto, researcher at the University of Queensland
From http://www.npr.org/2013/04/01/175714511/why-not-apologizing-makes-you-feel-better

Friends and I have been discussing the above quote and NPR feature on apologizing. The resulting discussion prompted me to write about apologies and forgiveness. I invite you to read the linked article and respond on my blog, on my Facebook Page, or in an email.

……….

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold”
― William Carlos Williams

In the spring of the first year of my second marriage, I failed to pay our light bill. The consequences are unforgettable. The utility company cut off our electricity and stuck a notice to our front door. Herb came home from work at 3 o’clock to find the garage door wouldn’t open, the computer wouldn’t power up, and the bathroom light wouldn’t switch on. Since he had come in the back door, he missed the notice on the front door. Thinking a transformer had blown, he called the utility company.

While Herb was discovering we didn’t have any electricity and then driving to the utility company to pay the bill, I was leading a curriculum workshop for 70 faculty members at Warren East High School in the school cafeteria. Floor to ceiling glass covered one cafeteria wall. Around 5 o’clock someone told me Herb was outside in the hallway. I saw him through the glass. He was pacing back and forth and slapping a piece of paper against his thigh. He was mad as hell!

For two months, at school and home, I’d been buried in paper. I’d taken on too many responsibilities, had moved professional priorities ahead of domestic ones, and neglected our finances. The light bills got lost in the shuffle.

I apologized, but the apology felt inadequate. The cliche “I felt like a worm” is apt. A silence descended upon our happy home. I avoided his eyes and spent the evening sorting through every stack of paper in my study. I feared another bill might have slipped my attention. Besides, I needed something to do while I nursed my guilt.

In this case my apology needed to be linked to solutions. I wanted to feel forgiven, but I also needed to fix the problem. Herb began sorting the mail for us and filing the bills, a job he’s done perfectly for twenty-one years. I eventually resigned from my curriculum duties and reduced my professional load. When online bill paying became available, I quickly signed on.

What if I had said, “I’ll fix it,” but never apologized? According to Tyler Okomoto my self -esteem would have been enhanced by thinking, “I’m NOT sorry,” and further enhanced by not saying, “I’m sorry.”

I used to tell my children, “Don’t apologize; fix the problem.” I believed that apologies without solutions were wasted rhetoric.

If their grades dropped, I expected a nose to the grindstone solution. If one of them missed a curfew, I expected a show of sacrifice: every evening at home for a week. Penitence was more important than apologies.

Today, if my husband loses his temper with me, I expect him to apologize, but he’s a fixer. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. And he does.

One of my dear friends, now gone, always said to me, “Forgiveness was forgetting.” She convinced me by her actions and words that whatever wrong had passed between us was completely forgotten. I can’t begin to tell you how comforting her approach was to me, the master of ruminating remorse.

Another friend mastered the fine art of communicating with only our best selves, so much so that I rarely felt any apologies were necessary. I’d always wished she hadn’t told me about her breast cancer at a restaurant. The roar of customer voices felt like a tsunami wave in my head. I felt like ice water had been poured over me. I couldn’t swallow. I became dizzy and nauseous. But I never let on. I didn’t want her to feel as if she needed to apologize. I learned later that she had tried to tell me her diagnosis in other settings, but I was immersed in the business of divorce and not tuned to her needs. She preempted my apology with her understanding.

However, as I’ve aged, I’ve encountered situations that cannot be easily understood or repaired. The solutions seem obscure or may require cooperation from another person. What if someone apologizes for words misspoken or for unkind or rude behavior, but the situation fails to heal? Or what if I apologize but don’t feel forgiven? I am at a loss when this happens, dumbstruck. I feel responsible for the healing and frustrated when my efforts fail.

Here’s where an ironic loop happens: We might feel inadequate because we had apparently failed with convincing forgiveness or apology, unlike my friend who led me to believe all was forgotten. We might fail at accepting a dear one’s foibles, unlike my friend who understood and forgave my preoccupations before I was aware of any slights. We might suffer from so much guilt, we cannot free ourselves even with an apology. We might harbor hidden resentments and fears. Or we might not know the words to say and simply choke.

In loving others we want to be strong and humble, unselfish and kind, sympathetic and generous, reliable and consistent. We fail often. How much should we apologize for our preoccupations and inadequacies?

A steady stream of I’m sorry seems weird, don’t you think?

And yet, I watched a simple apology between two friends that completely defused a potential argument when he said to her, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand the situation.” Suddenly she felt badly for him; he was so earnest.

She also does a believable job of apologizing. She’s self-deprecating, witty, and sincere. In apologizing to me, she’s caused me to want to comfort and reassure her. I can’t bear for her to be sad or to feel guilty.

We have lots of help on the topic of apologizing. A google search on Barnes and Noble’s website produced over 3,000 titles with the word apology in them, including various versions of Plato’s Apology, Mitt Romney’s No Apology: Believe in America, Tony Danza’s I’d like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had, and Gary Chapman’s and Jennifer Thomas’ The Five Languages of Apology: How to Experience Healing in All Your Relationships.

The topic is ancient and ever fresh.

“I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.”
― Plato, The Republic

Matthew 6:12: “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

“To err is human, to forgive, divine.”
― Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”
― Mahatma Gandhi, All Men are Brothers

“People are often unreasonable and self-centered. Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway. If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway. If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway. The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway. For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.”
― Mother Teresa

1 Corinthians 13:4-8: “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away.”

“True forgiveness is when you can say, “Thank you for that experience.”
― Oprah Winfrey

“Never forget the nine most important words of any family-
I love you.
You are beautiful.
Please forgive me.”
― H. Jackson Brown Jr. From Life’s little Instruction Book

If you stayed with this post and reached these last lines, you’ve reached the essential core beneath all of my thoughts:

“To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”

― C.S. Lewis

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is visiting this week. Think small dog, not music. Wolfgang, a little white fluffy Havana Silk, is currently curled up on a leather ottoman just inches from me. He is taking his midday nap, having worn himself out walking in the yard, barking at the cable repairman, and objecting to the tree trimmer.

Last night Wolfgang’s owners, a daughter, her husband, and two children, texted us to see how Wolfgang was adjusting to their absence. “Was he moping?”

At that moment, their precious puppy was curled up on an afghan on the sofa and looking thoroughly relaxed. He had had a busy day, following us around in the yard, watching squirrels, and barking at birds. The laundry had provided additional entertainment: socks, socks, and more socks. I learned to hide my reading glasses and put waste baskets up on counters. When he evaluated favorably the club chairs in the living room, we had a come-to-Jesus meeting.

“He definitely misses you,” I said. Little fibs are okay for the right reasons.

For over thirty years, we have resisted dog ownership, not that we don’t appreciate dogs.

I adore well trained dogs. Puppies cuddle and act silly. Dogs listen to inane chatter as if it mattered and love to take neighborhood walks, activities my husband escapes at the first hint. Dogs are improved door bells: they announce friend and foe as soon as they come near the property, a perfect solution for weak knocks and broken doorbells.

Herb, on the other hand, being a practical man, has a ready list of negative dog traits. All dogs begin as needy puppies. Puppies wet carpet and chew furniture legs. A puppy cries in the night, so you must sleep with your arm dangling over the mattress and your hand on the little guy when the ticking clock in the heating pad fails to calm him. And all cute puppies grow up to become dogs.

A dog listens with selective ears: it won’t come when called; then you must chase it down. While chasing Fido, we are likely to trip over a hole in the yard, twist a knee, and end up in surgery.

A dog doesn’t travel well. Although at our age, we must stop and relieve ourselves every two hours, we don’t have to be leashed and led to an approved area. When we arrive at our destination, we don’t have to apologize for having arrived as humans who need feeding and bodily function breaks at regular intervals, plus opportunities to voice our joys and fears; whereas to bring our precious pet, we would need to market its positive traits: its predictable and easy feeding habits — two bowls for the duration, one for water and one for dried food — and its polite housebroken behaviors — a steady stare at a green space in the back yard and pleading eyes. We would also need to extol our dog’s congenial, social skills, in spite of the fact that our dog would likely jump up to lick our hostess’s face or sniff inappropriately.

Since dogs bark indiscriminately at the trash man, the neighbor’s three year old grandson, and dear friends, not to mention all cats, squirrels, birds, and other dogs, I’m uncertain how to spin this behavior. How about, Wolfgang is talkative like me? I’ve been known to wake Herb up in the middle of the night for lesser reasons than “The house is on fire!” or “Someone is rattling the back door!” We all speak indiscriminately: Herb frequently interrupts my business to say, “Look! a white squirrel!” or “A red breasted, purpled beaked, triple tailed woodpecker in the Oak!”

Here’s his clincher: Dog’s die. You fall in love with them. They follow you everywhere, keep you company when no one else will, and tolerate what people won’t: being left at home in a cage for hours and berated for something they didn’t do. And then they die after only ten or twelve years. Over our lifetime, to always have a dog would mean we would have to fall in love and grieve more than six times, counting from age ten.

Wolfgang doesn’t know about all these objections to his species. He’s perfectly content to follow Herb outside at six every morning and later to chew on Herb’s cap and my socks. He sits to beg for treats and climbs into my lap when I’m reading. When I play classical music, he smiles. At night he crawls into his crate and falls sound asleep. (The crate is in our bedroom where I put it when he whimpered about feeling lonely his first night.)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart will be going home soon. His family will sweep in, embrace him, coo over him, and leave us to adjust to his absence. We will regain the leather ottoman and two square feet of walking space in the bedroom. I will return to walking myself and silencing my thoughts. I wonder if Herb will miss tossing his white cap at “Hey Dog,” his name for Wolfgang, and sitting with Hey Dog’s head on his thigh. Without Wolfgang’s barking, the house might seem too quiet for awhile. Still we don’t have to be concerned about falling in love and then grieving an absence. Or do we?

One morning preoccupation here is bird watching.  With spring nudging forward and winter grasping at its last days, Herb filled the bird feeder and cleaned the wren houses.   Birds sweep across our yard from tree to shrub and fight for position on the feeder.  Grackles bully robins;  robins bully sparrows; sparrows bully wrens.  Our year-long, non-migrating Cardinals, snug in the Arborvitae and Cedars, cope by ignoring most all the migrating birds, with the exception of the finches.

At this time of year, grackles predominate, although if we sit still, we might spy a towhee or a woodpecker.  Even though marble-sized hail pelted the ground this afternoon and weather stations forecast snow for tomorrow, the grackles are gathering and squabbling over sticks, strips of vines, and dried grass stems.

This morning a grackle shot across the deck with a long stream of ornamental grass in its beak.  On this enterprising bird’s tail were two other grackles in a high speed chase of aerial tag.  Presumably, now that the first bird had discovered the twenty-four inch stem of grass and lifted it skyward where it trailed gracefully behind the speeding bird, the other birds sought to gain an advantage.

Was I watching a game of tag, of good-natured theft? Or outright bird bullying, as in, may the spoils go to the victor?

Yesterday morning, my neighbor created a mini-scavenger hunt for my two grand-children.  She hid a box of Girl-Scout cookies in the hollow of a tree on her property then called to tell me to tell them to look for a surprise at the base of a large tree.  Off they went, running and shouting. “Wait for me!” and “Me first!”

Soon they returned. “Which tree?”

“A  big one!” I said.

“But all the trees are big!”

“Really?!  I guess you’ll have to look under all of them.”

Later they came limping in the back door, she in tears, and he, the big brother, lecturing her about consequences.  They had found the box of cookies.  One box of cookies requires cooperation when two children are involved.  Apparently, she had asked to carry the cookies and said she would give them right back, then didn’t.  He  decided to take them back, but she resisted.  Down she went onto the driveway!  And now she was in tears, and he was defending his position.

I took possession of the cookies, squelched the argument, and sent them outside to play.  Their lingering aggression played out in a game of tag. They chased each other unmercifully until they were laughing.  When they came inside, they wrote a thank you note to the neighbor, walked the note to the base of the tree, and called her to tell her to look for a surprise in a big tree.  I confess I played a mediator’s role, but they were agreeable clients, once eating the cookies depended upon a workable  peace treaty.

As an elder adult, I’d like to believe I’m above seeking advantage and playing theft or harassment games.  But….I could identify with the birds and the children.

When Herb heads upstairs to the office to our shared computer, I feel an urge to race ahead and beat him to the chair.  I’m not sure we could peacefully share one vehicle.  He’d be hanging around in Lowe’s when I wanted to go to Talbot’s.  We shared one TV for a year until I gave up and bought another one so I could escape marathon football and basketball broadcasts.

Would I be the bird with the stem of grass racing ahead of her trackers?  I’d sure try.  I’d want to be the one to discover that graceful material and fly it to a fork in a shrub.  I’ve given up grabbing things away from others, but haven’t weaned myself from plotting an advantage.  Nor have I reached the “letting go” stage that I required of my grand-children.  After all, I did purchase a second TV when I couldn’t quite let go of my TV desires.  Giving the new TV to Herb for Christmas didn’t exactly absolve me.

I’m still wondering which bird won the race.  As to the remaining cookies, the children’s mother thought it best to leave them with us.  She didn’t want to referee cookie wars.  As to spring or winter, winter wins this week.  The daffodils droop under wet snow, and the birds have disappeared into the hemlocks and cedars.  We can hear them, but we can’t see them.