There is a song lyric that says, “Regrets collect, like old friends”. I beg to differ. To me it feels like regrets collect like old nemeses. They linger, reminding you of every mistake, influencing who you are and how you respond. There’s nothing friendly about them. Mine feel more like nails on a chalkboard, or sand on the sheets.
They come in all shapes and sizes, and they stack up in our lives over time. I think of them like marbles in a fish bowl. The bowl looks nice as long as there are only a few in it. And some of those regrets are kinda pretty and come with good stories. Why didn’t I get my camera out when that bear crossed the road? I can’t believe my line broke when that huge fish was on it! But the more marbles there are, the less room the fish has to swim. And obviously, the fish in this analogy is happiness.
So the trick is to make sure that your fish always has plenty of room to swim. Which is a tall order, because once those marbles have been added to the tank, it’s tough to get them back out. Sure, there are sometimes opportunities to take back a regret – like when you regret that you didn’t buy that beautiful sweater when it was on sale for 15% off, only to then find it again at 30% off. Win! But most of those marbles stay firmly in the tank once they get there.
Luckily there are shrink rays that you can apply to many of those marbles. I went to a retirement party tonight, and spent time reminiscing with folks about people we used to work with. There were people that I should have stayed in touch with, people I enjoyed spending time with. Some I looked forward to having lunch with, some I liked to get together with after work. There was one guy that introduced me to online gaming, and I looked forward to comparing notes about Duke Nukem every morning. Why didn’t I work harder at staying in touch? I’m far too quick to move on, and so I let these people slip away. Here’s where one of those shrink rays comes in. This particular shrink ray is called The Internet. A quick google, drop an email, make a phone call… and that particular marble just got smaller.
Others are harder to shrink. I regret that I didn’t say goodbye to the House on the Hill. A few years ago my aunt, recently retired, decided to sell her house, the one she’d raised her kids in. She and my mother were close, so we spent lots of time visiting there. My own family moved around quite a lot, and so when people nostalgically talk about the house they grew up in, I draw a blank. My mind flickers through the houses I lived in: the one where I learned to ride my bike, the one where I had my own bedroom, the one I walked to school from, the one with the pool. But none of them feels like I grew up there. Until I remember the house on the hill.
I remember playing Barbies there, baking whoopee pies, sledding down the hill. You always had to listen for cars before you pushed off on your sled, because it was tough to stop at the bottom of the hill, so sometimes you’d end up sliding into the street. Which is not nearly as treacherous as it sounds. It was a quiet road that probably had all of about 2 or 3 cars pass by on any given afternoon. Those 2 or 3 cars belonged to neighbors who lived up the street, and they were accustomed to sleds, big wheels, kids and dogs careening over the crest of the hill without warning. They crept by at a snail’s pace, waited patiently for the road to be clear.
Before it was my aunt’s house, it was my grandparent’s house. My grandfather built it with his own two hands when his kids were young. My mother grew up there, the third of six kids. It was a close family, and even after all of the siblings were grown and had moved out, the family gathered often at the house to celebrate holidays or birthdays, or just because. I spent countless hours playing with my cousins there. My grandmother kept a closet full of toys for the grand kids; my grandfather had a fleet of tricycles in the basement.
And so when it was time for my aunt to move out, she invited everyone over one last time to say goodbye before she handed over the keys. Lots of family showed up that day, some driving for hours to get there. But not me. I’m well known for being stoic, a very stereotypical New Englander. On that day, I knew there was no possibility of staying dry eyed. I knew I’d be a puddle, saying goodbye to the house that had provided stability during a tumultuous childhood. The sadness was overwhelming, and so I did what I always do: I stuck my head in the sand and avoided the situation. Damn, I wish I hadn’t done that. I should have sucked it up and gone. What I wouldn’t give to be able to go back there now and have one last look around.
So where’s the shrink ray for that marble? It’s in the fact that the house is still standing, and I still live in the area, and some day, it’ll go on the market. This shrink ray is called Second Chances. I’m not saying I’ll buy it, but the opportunity will be there to look at it. Will it be worth my time? Will it be worth the real estate agent’s time? I don’t know, but knowing that the second chance is on the horizon shrinks this marble a little bit.
Last week a teenager in my hometown died in a car accident, only 3 months after graduating from high school. I didn’t know this young man, but he was the same age as my son. It’s a small town, so I’m sure that I cross paths with his family a few times over the years. We probably attended soccer games together, or school concerts. And last spring when my son crossed the stage to get his diploma, that young man was only a few steps behind. I don’t know his mother, but it feels like she and I raised our kids together, in a way, and so my heart is broken for her.
The driver of the car was the boy’s 19-year-old friend, who’d had a bit too much to drink. He walked away uninjured, but what a load of regret he’s got to live with now. He’s young, which means he’s got 60 or 70 years to live with the knowledge that he killed his friend. That’s one big honking marble to live with. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like. I don’t know if there’s a shrink ray for this one. That tank is irrevocably full, absolutely uninhabitable. Sorry there, little fish, but you’ll have to find somewhere else. At least for now. And I guess that’s the answer, isn’t it? The shrink ray called “Time”, maybe, just maybe, can shrink that marble a little bit. If this young man can hold on, if his fish can tough it out for a while, maybe there’ll be a little space in the tank someday.
I’m grateful that I don’t have any marbles that size in my tank, that despite all of the mistakes I’ve made (and there have been plenty of them), I’ve been spared the really big marbles. My marbles aren’t too hard to live with. And since it’s not possible to shrink all of the marbles, I think the lesson to be learned from all of this is not to add new marbles to your tank. Suck it up, do the hard things, and avoid marbles. Which is something I’m getting better at as I get older. Yeah, getting older sucks. Except that sometimes it doesn’t. Honestly, if you could suddenly magic-wand me back to 18 years old and I could start all over again, I wouldn’t. I’ve got marbles in my fish tank, but my fish is holding its own. And it’s wiser for having to swim around those suckers. There’s a saying that I like, by the poet George Eliot. I like it enough that I clipped it out of a newspaper years ago and stuck it on a bulletin board, and it’s still there, yellowed and worn:
It’s never too late to be what you might have been.
Words to live by.
Goldfish Photos: Wix.com
Marble Photos: Martin, Kimberlee. September, 2016.