Bag of guilt

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.