A Secret Sorrow

I usually find fascinating, even upbeat, things in the world around me, and try to capture (and sometimes share) them in my writings and blog entries. Because the world is full of beauty and surprise and wonder. But also filled with the sort of realizations that burst through clouds of illusion, like an owl swooping down on a rabbit contentedly grazing.

That particular thing hasn't happened here, yet, but it certainly could. The rabbit thing, I mean. But one of my illusions, or rather misperceptions, has met a timely end.

I more or less presumed that I am simply one of many on this journey through life, a flawed but mostly okay character, making all these circuits of the sun, season after season, and all is mostly well, always has been and likely always will be.

Now, though, I'm drifting, maybe wallowing, in a river of regret, a feeling no doubt exacerbated by the current Coronavirus and all the uncertainty it brings.

Popular thought, true enough, is that with age comes wisdom. I look back over a long life, happy memories, old friends who are mostly gone now, one way or another, newer friends, lost loves, lost opportunities and found ones. I have all that.

But wisdom also brings sorrow, the realization that I don't have the ability to go back and fix my mistakes.

Especially with my own children. I see kids now and all the fresh wonder they bring to the world, and I wish so desperately I had taken more time to share that with my own, to be there simply to listen and laugh, reassure and encourage. Many times, I'm glad to say, I was there. But sometimes I was simply busy or preoccupied, Sometimes I was simply selfish.

Only now can I see through the lens of time and reflection, and I see so many times I was absent, physically or mentally. Not only see, but feel deeply.

To be honest, it's not so much for what they lost that I mourn, as it is for what I lost, or, rather might have had. The kids got by, they've grown, and I even have a grandchild now. Sometimes we share old times, sometimes they have forgotten things I recall, and I can't recall things they talk about. But we find common ground, and we are mostly comfortable in each other's company and memories. I don't mind stepping aside and letting them take over the world I'm leaving, and I'm reasonably certain I will be missed, in a good way.

My secret sorrow is not for them, but for me. I didn't know then that all the things they said and did, and the support and understanding they sought, was not a demand on my time. It was a gift offered to me, an opportunity to rediscover the wonder of the world, and to gain a deeper understanding the joys and disappointments and beauty of life. A chance to become a deeper and gentler person.

It's good that I know this now, and, God and the coronavirus willing, I still have time to revisit our shared pasts, and to make a few amends. But it's so, so, saddening that I cannot go back and simply hear what they were trying to tell me then, and let them know I heard. That chance is gone and will never in this lifetime return.

I suppose, in my new role of old man, that I should close this rumination with an exhortation, so here goes. If you have, or will have, kids, please see them for what they are, gifts of spirit, and take the time to really be with them. Grab it while you can, the chance won't come again.