Last Saturday, I knew I was about to head into a stressful few weeks, so I planned to take it easy in the morning: a pot of coffee and some magazines while I enjoyed the cool temperature on my patio. Seemed like a perfect idea. Have you ever had a moment when you were happily moving through your day and suddenly, WHAM! you slam up against something that, unexpectedly, takes you to a place you never intended?
As I read an article recommending summer reading, and offering reviews of a variety of books to fit different summer moods or locales, it happened. The book being reviewed was You Are Free by Danzy Senna, a collection of eight stories, each of which “…surveys the dangerous fault line between parenthood and remaining childless.” The reviewer goes on to quote Livy, one story’s protagonist:
“And sooner or later all women know this,” says Livy. “You won’t know what it was you gave up until it is too late to recover.”
As soon as I read that line, it was too late for me to recover my emotional equilibrium. My mind was suddenly full of things I gave up and realized, too late, that I wanted. That beaded mask I made; certain relationships; my sense of self as an adventurer. Gave away. Gave up. Gave up on.
So, there I was on a lovely Saturday morning, on my patio in my pajamas, crying into my coffee.
Then I remembered something important: I am not my past.
I’ve watched too many movies about the perils of time travel, and the chaos that would result from even the tiniest change, to attempt to go back. And revisiting past choices with regret is like picking at a scab – viscerally satisfying in that moment, perhaps, but not good for the healing process in the long run. So, I do know what Livy says all women eventually know. But I also know this: if it is too late to recover, it is definitely too late to cry about it. Especially on a beautiful, tranquil Saturday morning.