Rain
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
Raymond Carver
I read an interview with someone recently who was asked whether or not he had regrets.
I can’t remember his answer but the question made me consider my own thoughts on the matter.
I don’t often look back. In fact, a colleague recently commented on my resolute looking-forward-not-back life perspective. It was an astute comment. I tend to erase the past once it has happened (both in my mind, where possible, and definitely in my obsession with not holding onto stuff that serves only as memories of the past). Why I am like this would keep many a therapist busy. I have my own multilayered interpretations that are only interesting to myself (and actually of increasingly receding interest even to me).
Anyway, back to the intro point. I have been wondering about my regrets.
My answer surprised myself. I don’t regret my life choices in terms of career, paths (and people) chosen, things I wish I had done, places I have not seen…
But I do regret the times I have been unkind. Such unkindness must have been hurtful, and probably made someone’s world, maybe even for just a few moments, a sad and lonely place. Maybe I overemphasise my importance in the lives of others. Yet, I do remember occasions when I could have done so much better for the other.
Allied to this are the times that I may not have been exactly unkind but I was not been kind enough. Didn’t go that extra distance when I could have done.
The wisdom of middle age (“I can see clearly now the rain has gone”) allows me to witness the joy kindness can bring to others, as well as to myself, both as a giver and a recipient.
I don’t have Carver’s confidence about reliving my life in exactly the same way. I am grateful that I can stop and think about how I might do better, and actively and consistently contribute a bountiful share of kindness to the world.
I find this poem by Danusha Laméris beautifully moving and uplifting.
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”
Danusha Laméris
We have another chance, a chance to be kind, and to be more kind.
Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don’t look back,
the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits—
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours
to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You’ll never know
who’s down there, frying those eggs,
if you don’t get up and see.
Rita Dove (1999)
Living through the Arts 