Being Regretful

Regret is not one of my favourite playground friends. She shows up, pouts a lot when she doesn't get her way, whines about anything, is perpetually negative, and she simply brings everyone down. I don't often answer the knock at my door if I know it's Regret calling me out to play.

Sometimes, though, Regret brings her friend, Clarity, with her, and I don't mind that so much. Clarity doesn't always arrive on time; she's never the first to show up at the sandbox. I think distractions sometimes waylay her for a bit. But when she does finally make her entrance, it's often a grand one. Smiles of realization break out on faces, welcoming nods come forth, and a little more sunshine seems to fall on the grains of sandbox sand.

I don't often regret the choices I've made. I find regret too overwhelming an emotion to bear. It allows people to wallow in self-pity and gives them permission to stagnate, rather than move forward. But when those rare moments do come up when I feel that overpowering feeling of sadness and choice-gone-wrong, I seek out the "why". Clarity makes her late, but always welcome, appearance, we hug like old friends, and understanding passes between us without a word.

I've made a few bad decisions on St. Maarten, but I hope, when I leave my island home in a few short months, that the only stow-away in my luggage is the one whose presence is gentle and heartening. I will not carry Regret, but Clarity will always have her place with me on the journey.