June 23: "The Poet with His Face in His Hands," Regrets, Delusional

Mary Oliver doesn't want to hear lamentation . . .

The Poet with His Face in His Hands

by:  Mary Oliver

You want to cry aloud for your

mistakes.  But to tell the truth the world

doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't

stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't

hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines

of tocks and water to the place where

the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that

jubilation and water fun and you can

stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,

on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing

of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

This is an unusual Mary Oliver poem, I think.  Usually, she takes all human experience and finds something beautiful in it.  Even grief and despair.  It seems as though Oliver has no patience for regret, however.  Regret adds no voice to the music of the universe.  Joy is the jubilation of waterfalls.  Sadness is the thrush singing of the stone-hard beauty of everything.  Regret?  That's a noise that needs to be drowned out, a dissonant grace note in the overall composition of creation.

Everyone has regrets over missed opportunities.  Things not said.  Passions not followed.  Unrequited loves.  Requited loves.  Soured relationships.  Me?  I'm the patron saint of regrets.  For instance, I am one class away from having an undergraduate degree in computer science.  Right now, I could be designing computer games in Silicon Valley and making a six-figure salary.  Maybe hobnobbing with Bill Gates or running Apple after the death of Steve Jobs.

If you think I'm delusional, you're right.  I am.  But that's what regrets are:  delusions.  They are those "if only" moments that lead to fantasies about money and fame and happiness.  If only I'd gotten that computer science degree, I could afford to send my kids to the best schools.  Get a second car for my wife to drive.  Purchase a nice, four-bedroom, three-bathroom house with a heated driveway and wrap-around porch.  Of course, all my faithful disciples will recognize this "if only" as complete bullshit.

I have a good life.  A beautiful wife, two smart, funny kids, a house, a car, and jobs that help my pay my bills and usually bring me joy.  Plus, I have published a collection of poems, and people seem to dig what I write.

Is my life ideal?  No.  But whose life is?  I have family and friends who love me and whom I love.  Roof over my head.  Ice cream in the fridge.  And a blue-eyed puppy who melts my heart by just reaching out and putting a paw on my arm.

So, I'm with Mary Oliver on this one.  (I usually agree with her, if you haven't noticed.)  Regrets are useless.  They belong in the recesses of a cave behind sheets of joyful dancing water.  Because life is too short to spend any time lamenting over what could have been.

Saint Marty prefers to spend his time celebrating what is.