When I was moving, I took the opportunity to go through The Box – a container for paperwork I’ve ferried from home to home since I was 18. Any time I received something important, it’d go in the box (and often never be seen again).
It was strange sitting among the papers – seeing my wayward life as told through bureaucracy. There was my degree certificate; a dole approval letter; a lease from a lawless flat where I once looked out the window to see police abseiling down; a pleading letter I’d written to the council when we’d been served an eviction notice; and fines from minor scrapes with law and order. But there were also poems, love letters, stories (and even a clipping from work experience at this newspaper).
It was too much. Memories of anguish collided with the ecstasy of recognition that I’d left that pain behind. Still, I missed the former me who did not care about the judgment of others. Were these exhibits of my worst self or my greatest? I was too overwhelmed to conclude. I returned the papers to the box, unsorted.
A few days later, an acquaintance called. He wanted to talk about his podcast, which explores the usefulness of regret through real-life stories. We spoke in the abstract about how, in order to have regret, there must be recognition, and from there forgiveness and closure can occur. “So when people say they have no regrets, it surely cannot be true,” I said. “And surely it also isn’t something to be proud of.”
I’ve been thinking about that as new year resolutions cross my mind. Isn’t a resolution a prime example of how something life-affirming can be built from recognising opportunities lost, or missteps taken? So, this year I will no longer regret regret, nor shirk away from memories bitter or sweet. I’d better start the filing.
