Grudge

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunnéd it in smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

William Blake, 1794

I am a grudge-holder. It is not an attractive quality, this I know. In my defense, I am extremely slow to anger, and cheerfully can bear numerous slights, insults and outright injustices while turning the other cheek and walking a mile in the other person's shoes. But I have my line, and when it it crossed, it is like crossing the Rubicon; there's no going back. The particularly unattractive part of it is that my foe may not know the Rubicon has been crossed. Because my reaction of a real, unmendable breach of friendship is simply silence. Transitory arguments that can be resolved are met with either outbursts of anger or carefully worded confrontations. The anger flares up and burns out or is carefully extinguished. But the unforgivable, the permanent breach is looked upon wordlessly and then walked away from, never to return, never to forget, never to forgive. Knowing this, I am careful, extremely careful, to be sure the offense is indeed unforgivable. Because it is a terrible thing to knowingly and deliberately poison a friendship to death.

Eternity

Eternity

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the wingéd life destroy
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise.

William Blake, 1800


It is only natural, I suppose, to wish to grab hold of the joyous moments of our lives. The shining hours seem all too brief when laid against the everyday hours, the darker hours. We wish to make the most of the golden moments and the first instinct is to grasp at it, just as an infant grasps at an outstretched finger. But the act of grabbing, binding, only disperses the joy. It slips through our fingers like smoke, and swirls and disperses. So we must fight that first instinct, and allow the joy to come into our lives and pass out of our lives on its own schedule. Relish it, cherish it, never take it for granted. For that way, we can keep the memory within us, pure and radiant, without regret, without shame. And the memory of the joy is enough to sustain us until the next shining hour is upon us again.