Forgiveness is a lofty ambition. Pie in the sky. Gallantry in its purest form.

And yet. What does it even look like?  

Pardoning everyday nuisances does not require much of us. 

"That's ok, you cut in front of me. Go ahead, you have small kids."

"You forgot my birthday? No matter. It's just another year. We will catch up later."

But what of the travesties? The heartbreaking lies? The betrayals? 

Veterans marched to Standing Rock to beg for forgiveness of the Lakota tribe. In a ceremony they prostrated themselves, articulating in stinging detail the atrocities of past generations against the Native Americans. Their sacred land. Their language. Their sovereignty. Their children. Their freedom.

When I was eight my parents trekked to Mount Rushmore to impart on their progeny the awesomeness of this national treasure. No one mentioned that the mountain actually belonged to a nation who had no desire to sandblast faces of white men on it. 

Yet the chief who accepted the apology did so with no desire to punish.

"The land does not belong to us. We belong to the land."

Perhaps one of the well kept secrets to growing into a forgiving spirit it to own less. My opinions. My rights. My reputation. My just deserts. 

Being a witness to forgiveness, with no shadow of pomposity, or aftertaste of martyrdom is holy ground. 

It is a quality that I aspire to. But unfortunately the prerequisite is pain.