I Was Wrong.
Three little words least spoken, hardly heard, but powerful beyond imagining. They float around, waiting to be exhaled, and yet rarely are.
Excuses are profuse. Blame abundant. But few will stand up before all and say, “I was wrong.”
Instead it’s, “He did it.”
“I couldn’t have known.”
“It would have been alright if….”
Blah, blah, blah.
I’ve been wrong, many times, in fact. It feels horrible, a gut-wrenching sensation similar to terror at the thought of what others will think, the derision in their gazes as they peer down from their ivory castles of impunity at the one who failed.
They are fools.
The only way to learn is to fail, without it there is no progress, and without acknowledging it humanity cannot grow beyond the ignorance in which it constantly mires. Imagine the world we could create if every man, woman and child learned to stand up and accept blame, knowing those around them will support such strength and help discover a solution….
But I fear it will never happen, not until we are on the brink of catastrophe and can see our own demise in the chasm beyond. Greed is so integrated into our society that instead of helping each other we often ridicule those who fail, and as such cause fear in those who would strive for greatness.
Have I done this?
Absolutely!
I am not blameless, standing on a pillar spouting words of condemnation at those around me without including myself. No, my scorn is directed inward first and foremost, my abhorrence aimed at my own soul. And as such I know we all have such capacity within ourselves, with only one solution:
Embrace blame, accept responsibility, and then move on. There is a certain freedom in such recognition, and a weight will fall away.
I am wrong… but not always. It’s the times I am right which matter, and I only reach those by surviving the rest. All I can do is control that which I can and accept all else as it comes.
And try.
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Blame
It slips easily from the lips of the weak, caressing their torn egos with subtle whispers to lay guilt at the door of another, someone who may or may not pass on this noxious gift until it ultimately falls upon one who cannot or will not transfer it further.
Blame.
Few crave it, and those who do are fools, but only the brave can carry it without burden, nodding sadly in acknowledgement when someone asks if they are indeed the one guilty of human frailty. Others run in terror from it, smearing it on those they pass as they go, unable to acknowledge they might have done a single thing wrong in their life. These people will pass from the world with a curse on their lips that the doctor could not save them, that the car should have swerved, that the world should have never been created with death trapped inside. They will never know the true beauty of freedom that one can only know if they accept culpability for their shortcomings or failures and move on; living constantly in fear someone will discover them, realizing they are not a god, and so they continue to smear.
I do not want that life.
I have failed, I have done wrong. My life is not perfect, nor am I, much as I would prefer it otherwise. Mankind is not here to understand everything, merely to strive to understand everything, and I will continue to strive through all of my many perceived failings, not avoiding blame but wearing it proudly as a mark I have endured something which might enable me to avoid mistakes in the future.
To all those who fear to accept blame, I forgive you. I do not fault you for your shortcomings, though I’m not sure the favor would be returned. All I ask is that you spare a thought for those you condemn so easily; they may have tried beyond their best efforts to succeed, perhaps for your benefit, and your criticism may indeed be warranted, yet before you do I beseech you to look into the mirror and search those eyes staring back at you. Ensure they are indeed blameless before throwing your taunts, lest some of the mud you sling splash back upon your perceived innocence.
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