Regret is a human emotion that pushes me to be better, do more, create non-stop. I do not want to finish up my trips around the sun with regrets about things I didn’t do, truths I didn’t tell, “I love yous” I didn’t give. I’m a hugger. I want closeness. I want emotional expression of either side of the range. Highs can be managed and tapered, lows must be avoided and mitigated.
The exercise of writing your own headstone (imagining you’ll be buried where the living can come see you and pay respects – I’m not sure that’s where I want the remaining star dust of my body to rest. I like the idea of being buried in the ground as a pod that births a tree. Come sit by my branches dear ones, I’ve got a story to tell about your ancestor and all that he hoped to accomplish in his life. What’s the inscription on yours?
He loved and wrote at the top of his lungs.
I’m hoping to live a healthy and long life. So far, so good. I read somewhere about actuarial science and the concept that if you’ve made it to 60 in relatively good health, your life expectancy rockets up from 72 to 80. The healthier you are, the longer your potential life. Quality of life and cognition are the two factors that should and could end a life prematurely. I don’t want to be the blind cat who sleeps in the sun except for feedings and poopings.
Living in a way that reduces or eliminates regret is a fine idea in theory. If you are living your life with too much safety and “inside the lines” ambition, you are going to have to step it up. What’s the plan? What are your goals? Getting clear on those will set the trajectory for your life. Without them, you’re flying without a nav computer or map.
I see mountains. Beaches. Hiking paths. A community of artists.
I aspire for a mate, a creative partner, a co-pilot. I’m clear that at this moment, a relationship is not part of my immediate flight plans. Rather, the regret issue is more like a ticking clock. Any book or poem left on this computer after I ascend or descend drops into the void.
Should my kids want to read my writing? Should they care? Should I protect them? Not write about them, as my ex-wife demands?
I’ve let that one go. I’m not writing about their ambitions and regrets, I’m writing about my own. Being a father, then a single father, is my story. After I was kicked off family island, I suffered, struggled, stood back up, started Aikido. That is the moment when my next level of evolution took place.
From nothing and zero prospects, living with my sister, I was aware that what I wanted was outside the view of the camera. If I was watching my movie, I want to be happy, sad, and mostly touched. I want to express my love, my ambition, my loss, and my song. The purpose of my life is to sing at the top of my lungs.
What’s important. What is not. What I can control. What I cannot control. Let’s focus on what is within my reach.
Write. Love. Tell my friends and family how much I adore them. Show the love. Share the love. And keep expressing my truth regardless of “the market” or my sales potential as a writer or screenwriter. Just go. Flow. Write.
The dream won’t happen without focusing all of my efforts and energy on the goal. The book. The publisher. The next creative bloom.
She is not withing my constellation yet. She has disappointed me so many times in the past. For now, I will leave her on read. Give her the space and moment to come back. She may not. That’s the answer. Too busy. Conflicted. Wrestling with demons from her past. I’ll pass by in my happy bubble. “She’s amazingly beautiful, but damaged.”
I still think about the electric kisses of recent women and women from my college days. I was never a player. I did have more than one partner at a time, but they knew about it. I won’t burn in private. I want the heat. I set fires. I ask for more fuel.
In my recent past I would pour more coffee into my head trying to fuel some escape velocity of mind and heart only to find anxiety and then bursting into a shower of sparks before needing a week of rest. I’m adjusting my accelorator. Coming out of “sport mode.” I am aiming for a six. My previous ambitions had me redlining into mania and creative shutdown. Kind of like trying to do coke and then have sex. The joy, energy, and desire is there. The body remains focused on survival and rest. The instinct in me is strong. Go for one more. Even last night, I could feel myself wanting to push the visuals another level.
Why?
What am I missing by staying on the ground?
If I am alone, I am free to sleep or set myself on fire. I still watch my two kids burning their young candles on both ends. Advice will only come if they ask for it. Love will remain continuous. Even if I don’t agree with their choices, I will love and support them without reservation.
Sure, I’ll try to correct a catastrophic collapse with my influence, but I’ve learned that people do exactly what they want to do. Their cognition may be impared or permanently damaged. They may be obsessed with guns or bigger boobs, cars or outfits. As we grow wiser, we understand how what matters is our connection to others, our connection to ourselves, and understanding the difference. I can’t control my kids. I can give support and love. When they ask, I can share my ideas. If they don’t ask, if my son never wants to debrief about his struggles, I’ve got to be okay with that. He’s made it over the threshold, maybe not launched, but initiating a launch sequence of his own mental architecture.
