Let Regret Be A Teacher
When our son died, one of the first feelings that landed and took hold was regret. Regret that I hadn't documented my pregnancy more thoroughly. Regret that I hadn't paused more to feel my son swim back and forth along my belly. Regret I couldn't save him, even if that wasn't logical. Most of all, I regretted how I felt so rushed in my life that I was really waiting until he was born in order to enjoy him.
I did not savor him. I resented the headaches, swollen feet, and tiredness. I didn't savor hearing his heartbeat at the doctor's appointments — more often than not, I was thinking about where I needed to get to next. I didn't savor the moments Eden would talk to my belly. Or the way she sat beside me with a hand on my pregnancy bump, which really felt like our bump. I didn't write down all the books she read to him or the details of the conversations she'd had. I'm not sure I even took a picture of her kissing him goodnight.
It never crossed my mind to do these things. I had no category for savoring or being — or doing anything but charging forward as a responsible, professional adult. When Baby Long Beach died, I longed to find my way back to those memories...but they were faint, mere threads of the real thing.
As I emerged out of my grief tornado, it was then that I realized the only moment that can really be lived is right now. Savoring is done in the moment. This doesn't mean I neglect planning for the future or ignore my excitement about a future event. Instead, this means I hold both the excitement for what's coming as well as what's being offered to me right now.
As the sun rose over the hill, making its way to my backyard, I watched a red-throated hummingbird land on my balcony while I drank my black gold coffee mixed with a creamer advertised as positive energy from my indented, slate-colored ceramics cup I purchased last Thanksgiving at Headlands Lodge in Pacific City, Oregon. I knew in minutes, maybe seconds, the moment would be over. Yet, it was mine to have. These were details I'd never have remembered in the past. These details would've been deemed as non-essential, unimportant. Not anymore.
Now, on the page, my life is alive to you. It's alive to me. Living happens in the details. What's yours? What's around you that you haven't noticed lately? What might you regret if suddenly everything was different?