You know exactly where you keep it — somewhere under the collarbone, the apology you've been meaning to make. You could say it in your sleep. You almost have.

Here's the secret about an apology: it's a live thing. It has wings. When a butterfly first opens its own, it has to hang still while they fill and dry. But once the wings are open, staying isn't one of its options.

Yours are open. They have been for a while.

You can't control how it lands. The other person gets to feel whatever they feel. Your practice is only the release — the breath you've been holding finally going out.

And the lightness was never in being forgiven. It was in the sending.

Read today's reflection · Begin your practice