At the beginning of our marriage, my husband and I fought dirty. Not unlike threatened attack dogs, we each had a need to protect our perspective. One altercation bled into the next; the subject of the fight was immaterial. We were too proud to apologize, making rapprochement nearly impossible except on Yom Kippur, the annual holy day of atonement in Judaism. In the words of Elton John and Bernie Taupin, “Sorry seems to be the hardest word.”
That all changed when I stumbled on a post-9/11 public art installation at the World Financial Center. I’d walked to Wall Street that warm summer day to view the 3D animated models for the new site. On the way to the ladies’ room, I happened upon a series of black-and-white war images taken in Afghanistan. A large sign above them read: “Apologies at the World Financial Center.” I was instantly intrigued.
Nearby, a collection of tall glass jars with silver lids, each filled with handmade glycerin soaps wrapped in plastic, was positioned atop a long steel countertop. A simple handwritten note on the counter read: “Please take one.” I plucked a bar of soap from a jar — much as I would take a toothpick or a mint from a restaurant — to find that embedded in the flesh of the amber rectangle were the words “I’m sorry.”
I stashed the soap in my purse. What a cool little keepsake. Once home, with no intention of using it for bathing, I added it to my collection, a standout among the others and the only one with a written message. More than 5,000 bars were given away as part of the 9/11 recovery effort by artist Anne Beffel. The handouts were her tactile reminder to, in Beffel’s words, “catalyze thoughtful interactions.”
While Beffel intended her art to spark discussion about political apology and forgiveness, the soap was purely personal to me. Each year, as the high holidays approach, I think about that bar of soap — still in my collection — and how it aided the apologies in my marriage, not just on Yom Kippur but as an ongoing practice.
Several seasons after the soap came to be in my possession, my husband and I had yet another explosive quarrel. Probably about money, one of the many hot-button topics that brought out the worst in both of us. Here we go again. Another week of sleeping with our backs turned. Suddenly, mid-scream, I remembered the soap. “Hold on a second,” I said, my throat scorched. I raced upstairs to the bathroom, flipped through my arsenal of scented products, and clutching the small ambassador of goodwill in my palm, returned to the battlefield. “Here,” I said, “take this.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just take it. Before I change my mind.”
My husband turned it around in his hand, held it to his nose, sniffed it. “A bar of soap?”
“Read it.”
He lifted it toward the light. “I’m sorry?”
“Yep.”
We both stood down. And laughed. I don’t know what prompted me, in the heat of the moment, to remember Beffel’s creation. When I picked up that bar of soap, I didn’t have an inkling it would ameliorate the apology deficit in my marriage. This, of course, did not stop us from knocking heads ever again. We persevered with our usual struggles. He, an under-communicative provocateur. Me, a world champion grudge holder. However, when the next fight erupted, after we’d dished out words we would later regret, he turned to me. “Hey, where’s that soap?”
“In the bathroom.”
He disappeared, only to return to the crime scene a few minutes later. Handing the bar to me, he said, “This time, it’s my turn.” Some men apologize with flowers, others with chocolate. Mine chose to wash away his sins with a translucent personal care product. Not long after our initial détentes, we instituted a rule. We would simply take turns passing the soap back and forth, regardless of who was at fault. We became equal opportunity apologizers.
Miraculously, we silently kept track of who was up at bat. No scoreboard required. Our volcanic flare-ups continued, but after passing the soap back and forth for a year, I recognized a change. I felt a surge of satisfaction when the soap was in my hand. In fact, I looked forward to the act of apologizing. I didn’t care if it was my turn. It was so down-on-my-knees uplifting.
We still butt heads. He’s a thinker; I’m a feeler. He’s slow to process; I’m quick on the draw. Our crafty little go-between is now collecting dust, the words becoming progressively harder to read. I’ve been tempted to pass it along but stop myself. What if we hit an impasse and need it? Marriage does not come with a warranty. Fighting and rapprochement are inevitable. We chip away at it day by day. My husband says we are like two rocks rubbing against each other and, over time, smoothing out the rough edges.
I will pound my chest this year on Yom Kippur and repeat the words “S’lach lanu, m’chal lanu, kaper lanu.” I will make amends for things I’ve said and done and, meditating on the teachings of Rabbi Harold Kushner, will remind myself: “Forgiveness means cleansing your soul of the bitterness of what might have been, what should have been, and what didn’t have to happen.”
I might have been a gentler person. My home should have been a peaceful haven. Disruptive disputes didn’t have to happen. Forgiveness is not a kindness for the one who offended us, but a kindness we do for ourselves. Thanks to finding a random bar of soap at an art installation, my husband and I have learned to fight fair. For the ways in which we have fallen short, please forgive us, pardon us, and grant us atonement.
Megan Vered is a North California-based writer who has contributed to the San Francisco Chronicle, Kveller, The Writer’s Chronicle, and The Rumpus.
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