Moving away from my brother in high school: I saved myself, but I’ve always felt like I left him behind. Arriving at the hospital after my father died. Lashing out at others when I feel vulnerable. Not embracing joy when it clearly presents itself. Having bought a house. Unkind words I have said precisely because they were unkind.
In his speech this spring to Syracuse University’s graduating class, George Saunders writes, “What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.” I’ve been thinking about that, what it means to fail at kindness. What it means to have regret.
A philosopher friend named Jesse brought up regret several nights ago at dinner. He described it as something potentially positive, described a fondness for thinking back at moments in his life that might have gone many different directions. As the conversation progressed, Zac wondered whether having regret means you’ve lived a full life, that you’ve had many choices available to you and had to make some tough decisions about which paths to follow. Maybe a life without regret means you’ve never had to make tough decisions. Maybe a life without regret means you’ve never had the opportunity to regret.
I don’t regret taking on so much student loan debt—it allowed me to live more comfortably, to spend time in college developing wonderful friendships. I don’t regret all the time I’ve spent in school. I don’t regret traveling, no matter a trip’s expense, hardship, or food poisoning. I don’t regret having hung up on people who were saying mean things. I don’t regret having written a single poem, even the terrible poems, even the poems no one wants to publish. I don’t even regret having spent whole afternoons watching reality TV.
At the end of his speech, Saunders tells Syracuse’s graduating class, “And someday, in 80 years, when you’re 100, and I’m 134, and we’re both so kind and loving we’re nearly unbearable, drop me a line, let me know how your life has been. I hope you will say: It has been so wonderful.”
And maybe our wonderful lives will be filled with regret. And maybe they won’t. But I hope that looking back when I’m 134, even my most regret-filled memories will have a tinge of sweetness. As Jesse says, I hope they will demonstrate what a rich, full, wide-open life I have lived. The choices I’ve had. The many opportunities.
Planet of the Blind 