Sometimes I say a hurtful thing.
I can be cruel.
And I feel grubby. And pained.
Why don't my favourite poets write about this?
Perhaps I am not their equal.
They talk of suffering and solace sometimes, and I feel kinship.
I am transported to stars and space and forests
I am reminded of the beauty and community in the whistle of a kettle
But what I would give to know that they too, sometimes say the wrong thing
Let the heat of jealousy or pang of invisibility or sting of regret force their words
What I would give to know that they too feel shame
And it doesn’t stop them from being graceful and worthy of love.
Can I be forgiven for my slip?
Can I forgive myself?

Then I find these words which hold an unbelievable amount of comfort from the wise teacher Pema Chodrön:

“In that painful moment when we don’t live up to our own standards, do we condemn ourselves or truly appreciate the paradox of being human? Can we forgive ourselves and stay in touch with our good and tender heart? When someone pushes our buttons, do we set out to make the person wrong? Or do we repress our reaction with “I’m supposed to be loving. How could I hold this negative thought?” Our practice is to stay with the uneasiness and not solidify into a view. We can meditate, do tonglen, or simply look at the open sky—anything that encourages us to stay on the brink and not solidify into a view.”

- Pema Chodron