I’m not
quite sure when it kicked in. Can’t
quite put a finger on how exactly the stars were aligned when I woke up. But I did.
It finally happened.
I dropped
regret. Completely. Well, almost completely.
Regret is
like worry. It’s actually a stronger
poison than worry. Because it’s about
the past. Something you de facto cannot
change. While worry is also a waste of
time, at least it’s about the present or the future; something our limited
human minds manages to reason it has dominion over.
But regret? Well, that’s just sad. A spinning of wheels.
And it
doesn’t matter what the regret is. How
big it seems. How sad it feels. Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
Regret
tampers with the tapestry of our lives that is singularly ours; unique, flawed,
interesting, colorful. Regret is
graffiti tagged on our life’s mural.
Whether I wish I would have made a different choice isn’t really part of
the equation. Rather, what has emerged
from what feels like a wrong turn, an impulsive act, a bad decision, a costly
intimate rejection?
Let’s face
it. Isn’t it possible that Plan B is
more interesting, riveting, and worthy than Plan A could have been? And if not, you can’t change the past, but
you can certainly move forward with a freshly set intention of living life
without regret.
When
tendrils of regret start encroaching on my psychic garden, I prune them with
thoughts of “insteads.” With what have I
been blessed instead? By what have I been challenged instead?
And the
answer to both questions is, plenty.
