read in browser Every night for the past year, just before falling asleep, I open a tiny notebook that lives on my nightstand and ask myself: “Where do I owe amends?” It’s a gentle practice, not a harsh one – not an opportunity for self-flagellation, not a punishment. It’s just an invitation to be honest, to offer myself inventory. Sometimes, the answer surfaces quickly. Other nights, I avoid the notebook altogether – until something insists on being named. More often than not, I find I owe...