Reflection and Repentance

"A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams"—John Barrymore

I missed the bus last on Friday night.

I thought I had plenty of time before the bus bound for Pennsylvania was going to show up, so I took a quick run to the loo.

I was planning to go to a local theater production, and I thought this would be a nice change of pace. As I walked out of the bathroom, I heard a large vehicle rolling by my house.

That had to be a sanitation truck, I reasoned, and not my ride, but when I got to the window and watched this big-ass vehicle pulling away, I saw “Allentown” painted on the back.

I wasn’t going to the theater.

None of this happened, of course, at least not in the real world. I had dreamed the entire episode, which had taken place in the porch of my family’s back on Senator Street.

But the emotion I felt as I watched that bus fade down the street was all too real and quite familiar.

I was consumed with regret.

Experts believe that dreamed about missed buses symbolizes a feeling of being left behind, missing an opportunity, or a sense of being too late to take advantage of a situation in your waking life.

It can also represent frustration or a lack of control over your current situation.

Yeah, that all fits my situation. And I suspect that my subconscious mind put the bus stop outside my ancestral home in a nod to unresolved issues I have with the past.

I’ve been thinking about regret a lot lately—how it dominates so much of my waking life and how little progress I’ve made in freeing myself of this toxic state of mind.

I do this visualization exercise where I imagine how Fear, Anger, and Regret as chains that take me F.A.R. from my dreams. (Yeah, I know it’s hokey, but I like it.)

To Dust You Shall Return

I can see now that all three of them feed into each other, how it’s really one long chain. I fear to do something different; I regret it and then I get angry that I gave into fear. And then it starts all over again.

Clearly there is a part of me that doesn’t to break that chain, that wants to live in a constant state of regret.

There’s a quote attributed to Hippocrates, the father of modern medicine, that says, “before you heal someone, ask him if he's willing to give up the things that make him sick.”

I think that applies to my reluctance to let go of regret. My subconscious is so used to feeling this way that it’s hooked on the status quo.

Lent started last week and, fortunately, I remembered not to eat meat on Ash Wednesday. But I had decided last week that I wanted to go back to church and get my ashes.

I hadn’t done this in years, and I really wanted to get back to it. I figured I’d duck out before work and take care of it. But then I decided I’d go at lunch.

Of course, lunchtime rolled around and I was behind on a story, so I thought I’d go after work. And by then I decided it was too late, so I didn’t keep that promise to myself and…I regretted it.

Yeah, I missed the bus on that one.

Ash Wednesday is intended as a reminder of human mortality and the need for reconciliation with God. I’m officially a senior citizen and I have to remind myself that nothing lasts forever—even yours truly.

In Catholic school the nuns used to encourage give up something that we liked for Lent to show our devotion. I can remember promising to give up candy for the duration, although I’m not sure if I succeed or not.

I’ve been thinking that I should try and give up regret for Lent--and hopefully forever. Obviously I don’t like these awful feelings, but it would be quite a sacrifice, since clearly a part of me longs for remorse.

I know it’s going to be hard to deliver on this one. But instead of making an ironclad declaration that is almost certainly going to fail—and cause even more regret—I’ve been taking a softer approach to my psyche.

I’ve been asking myself what it would it feel like if you didn’t feel regret morning, noon, and night? How much happier would you be? How much more productive?

I think it’s worth pursuing because I would just love to turn my regret into ashes.