I wish I had never....

I have really wanted to blog but everything I write turns out sounding bitter and generally ugly so I've not published anything I've written for a while.

I had a post about a birthday party we went to at a house that was filthy...which although not bitter per se, in reality didn't need to be retold. In fact it was over a week ago and I am still struggling with some of the images.

So this morning I'm up at 5:30 am thinking about all the Persian rugs I have in the attic. I have spent literally spent thousands of dollars on rugs that now lay in mouth balls wrapped in green hefty bags.

With the girls and the animals I've put the lion's share away. Each rug is a work of art and having them in the house brought light and color, yet I couldn't stomach having them ruined. It is my hope the roof rats don't enjoy snacking on them.

So I'm thinking - fuck- why did I buy all those rugs...it's 5:30 on a Saturday.

When I was a kid my dad's favorite phrase was 'I wish I had never...' and then fill in the blank.

I never heard him say he 'wished he had never...' had children or moved from Iowa to California, but other than those two things he pretty much covered everything else. Every house, every car, there was no purchase made that was not subjected to 'I wish I had never...'.

Regret.

So now I have it...thinking about rugs I bought from my sister-in -law's Iranian ex boy friend was the first regret of the day.

For me there is a constant stream of regrets running through my mind on a continual basis, like the news crawl on CNN.

'...I should have not left that hamster outside in the habitrail when I was in the sixth grade...' and then there's '...I should have gone away to college...'

Its always there, flowing through my head, a transparency over whatever else I'm doing.

Since my father regretted the vast majority of his decisions he backed into life, where as I decided to move forward- but we were left with virtually the same result.

I thought if I was more deliberate it might somehow change for me, that his regret was somehow linked to his seemingly lack of control over his life, a turtle on his back.

Now I think it has to do with our inability to allow for mistakes, because in that we are both the same - my father and I- we don't allow mistakes for ourselves or others.

I don't want my daughter's to make mistakes, but I certainly would never want them to know it.

To forgive your own mistakes is to live without the burden of regret, and it is a burden I truly don't want for either of them.

About 5 days before Joe took his own life I knew he was depressed, but didn't know to what extent. I specifically asked Gioconda about it.

"He wouldn't kill himself, right...," are the exact words I said to her.

"No way. I've seen him so much worse, and besides he's Catholic," she replied.

So we know how this turns out, 5 days later I find myself standing behind yellow police tape outside his house hearing the news, and then life was turned on its head.

The profound consequence of that day left all of us unraveled, a weight around our necks, which is never removed but coped with...

There was something in me that told me Joe was near the edge, but I didn't act.

I should have told him that he needed to be strong for Julien who was leaving for this freshman year at Cal the next week, and explain to him how terrible it would be for Aidan to loose his father at the age of 11.

I could have told him it would be the unmooring of his own mother, and how his sons would struggle to understand why he would leave them in that manner. How they would all be left untethered.

I should have told him it would fundamentally change Gioconda, robbing her of her optimism, and that she would be filled with her own regret- how she would miss him- how they would all miss him -

But I never said any of that to Joe....

So this regret dwarfs the others - really....

Today is 9/25/2010. This day holds no other significance to me other than the following:

I'm going to forgive Joe's mistake...and I'm going to forgive mine....all of mine.

Moving forward deliberately....