Being a nice day, my friend and I drove to Pescadero Beach, south of Half Moon Bay. We walked along the beach and talked. We were good friends, not old friends. What we had in common was an appreciate for just what we did, walk and talk. The setting isn't important, it may have been the markets on a Sunday morning, or the beach, as it was. 

It was cool, so walking was the thing to do. Walking and talking about the little things, the big things, and some of the things in between.

The conversation turned to an acquaintance of mine, a few years back, that, through obliviousness or meanness, inflicting a not insignificant amount of pain upon me, psychological pain. Though it was a few years ago, I haven't figured out how rid myself of the venom I carry for this guy, and my thoughts don't turn toward him often, but often enough that I have bad dreams about him regularly.

Walking on the beach, especially when it's chilly, lends itself to contemplative thought, as opposed to a warm, sunny day, when lying a beach towel soaking up the rays and listening to B. B. King or J. S. Bach, eyes closed, is the thing to do. We walked and talked and the conversation came around to this guy. I'll call him Jackass, for no particular reason. 

I told my friend, I'll call her Mary Ann, for no particular reason, except that's her name, that every time I thought of Jackass I felt slightly ill and scared and even vengeful. I said, "I want to kill him," though I wasn't serious, his offense wasn't a capital crime. Life in Sing-Sing would suffice. I outlined the story to Mary Ann, she listened, and as I talked I could hear myself exaggerating the significance of his particular crime. It was hard to see, and this is the advantage of conversation with a friend, as opposed to oneself, that I was giving more weight to the issue than it deserved. Still, I felt what I felt, and it wasn't good.

Mary Ann listened as I spoke my peace, then hit it again from several different angles, and with each version of the story I began to feel sillier and sillier for having such a reaction to someone who, honestly, meant me no harm, but whose personality and philosophy conflicted with mine.

As a good therapist does, or should do, Mary Ann drew me out, let me talk myself out. A mile later I had come to the conclusion that Jackass was a jackass, but not a villain. He offered me no current threat, he hadn't harmed me physically, and I was unlikely to ever see him again. I could, in fact, let it go. It had never occurred to me to let it go.

We walked for a while longer, each thinking our thoughts. I felt better, rather than worse, after talking about Jackass, which surprised me. He has been such a blight for so long. 

Later that day, after we had driven back to the city, and Mary Ann was dropping me off at my apartment, she said, "you'll sleep better now that you don't have hate in your heart." She said it matter-of-factly.

I was stunned by her statement on so many levels—it's presumption, it's religiousity, it's certainty, and it's insight. 

I hardly knew how to respond, but it seemed like a revelation. Did I have hate in my heart for Jackass? I don't think like that, "hate in my heart" is a phrase I've never used, and never would have associated with myself. "Hate in my heart," an odd, Biblical way to refer to me, a non-religious, somewhat tolerant individual. "Hate in my heart" would apply to someone sitting on a pew in an evangelical church, not on the beach south of the gayest, most diverse city in the United States. 

There is a backstory. Mary Ann grew up in rural Arkansas. Her parents, both of them, grew up in rural poverty, though they certainly wouldn't have called themselves poor. They simply did without. Mary Ann's mother grew up barefooted, without running water, working hard. Mary Ann herself had all the advantages, though modest, of modern life, but the influence of her parents was, of course, huge, as was the place of Church in their lives.

Mary Ann's mother raised Mary Ann and her three brothers. Mary Ann's father cut white oak trees for stave bolts which become staves for whiskey barrels. Mary Ann's father was adamantly anti-alcohol, and in Arkansas liquor was a county by county statute, but dry or wet, it gave Mary Ann's family a living.

Mary Ann, and her husband to be, who grew up similarly, went on to college, both graduated with degrees, her husband with an advanced degree. The poverty of their youth was in fact enriching to their ambition, their focus, their appreciation for their background, and an equal appreciation for their abilities to live in a more modern world. 

The one thing they appreciated more than anything was their faith. The Baptist Church was the center of their lives, though school played a huge role. The Church was their social, moral, and ethical hitchin' post. It was also the House of Gossip and Slander. The Church, a holy place, was also a very human place. This gave Mary Ann a sense that the Biblical word was different than the words spoken in the House of God. 

This is a long way of saying that her words, "hate in your heart," came from a deep place, a place I  knew and understood from our friendship. It was said sincerely, but casually, and with some humor. "Hate in her heart" was old news to her, but it was new to me, and I listened.

Did I hate Jackass? I did. Did he deserve my hatred? Probably. Was he aware of my hatred toward him? Nope. Did this hatred do me any good? I thought it had, but perhaps I had been wrong. 

Last night as I was going to sleep I said my little prayer, which is more of a mantra, and not directed to anyone in particular, I considered these questions: do I have hate in my heart, is it doing me any good, and would I be better off without it? Yes, no, yes. 

Can I let it go?

Last night I slept dreamlessly, that is I had no dreams from which I woke in terror. I slept with an unfamiliar ease. I woke feeling as if something was missing, and that something, it took me a few minutes to see, was fear. I no longer feared Jackass because I no longer hated him. 

Twelve hours later I'm writing this wondering what's what. I can say this, I don't hate Jackass anymore. I don't like him. I asked Mary Ann if not hatred, what should I feel, she said tolerance. That is something I understand. 

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