Ever since I was twelve years old I've called myself a writer. The title felt legit. I didn't need to publish a book or have a byline in a magazine. As far as I was concerned, the fact that I kept a journal and wrote in it nearly every day gave me license to call myself a writer.
Yesterday, after a long walk on a cold, windy day here in Toronto, I did something kind for myself. I was sitting in my hotel room, answering email and finishing up some work, when I looked over at the end of the bed and noticed the sun had cast a pool of light across the comforter.
Yesterday I had a shame attack. I woke up after a long night's sleep, recovering from leading a five-day retreat, and found a post on Facebook from an angry participant who called me rude and suggested that I was a fraud.
Yesterday, during a break from the nonstop snowstorms here in the Northeast, I strapped on snowshoes and went outside for a walk. As I trudged through the powdery, fresh snow, I made a spontaneous decision to dedicate my walk to forgiveness.