Somedays, I wish I could just lay down my old, worn out bag of guilt on some side-street sidewalk in Paris, just like Macon Leary in Accidental Tourist. I mean, at times it is so heavy I find myself physically limping down the street, or up the stairs to my study. The guilt is profound, pervasive, paralyzing, and unforgiving.
Yeah, yeah, I know it served a purpose once, maybe fifty, or even sixty years ago or so, but now the bag is just old baggage - a bunch of useless, irrelevant, unrealistic, and unhelpful stuff.
This morning I say, "Just lay it down, Tamarika."
Set it aside.
And walk on by with a lightened load.