There are scenes from movies that no matter how many times I watch them, I somehow can't

keep from crying all over again.

Art can do this, excavate a buried thing inside of us, and hold it up until our eyes

adjust to the bright truth of it.

There is that scene from Goodwill Hunting when Matt Damon's character who tried to cover

the pain of their childhood abuse with the veneer of toughness and bravado is told by his

therapist that it wasn't your fault.

And he brushes it off, but the therapist won't stop repeating it.

It wasn't your fault.

He'll finally will break down sobbing, unburdened by the truth and the relief of it.

And there's Robert De Niro's character in the mission set in the 18th century, a mercenary

enslaved trader in South America who kills his own brother in a fit of jealousy and says

to a Jesuit priest that he is beyond saving, that for him redemption is not a possibility.

Coming at the priest gives him penance anyway to carry a large net full of the trappings

of his past, armor and weapons and gold, and walk with it on his back for miles, carried

up steep cliffs and waterfalls.

An easy metaphor for the dead weight of his own shame.

After an exhausting painful journey when De Niro finally hoists himself to the top, he's

cut free from the net by someone who had every right to instead cut his throat.

And the contents fall down the cliff and he collapses into sobs.

It was his fault.

I felt like both these characters at varying times in my life carrying both the weight of

...