What a Regret

My grandmother wrote stories. When she got older, past seventy, some of her work was published in books, newspapers, and senior citizen magazines. Mostly it was poetry, but some of it was short stories.

She mostly wrote about life in the early 20th century, which was when she was born and lived her formative years. Some fascinating stuff reading about wood stoves, crocheted mittens, winter excursions, dolls, and life in general growing up in country Iowa and Minnesota. Many of her so-called fictional stories were actually incidents from her own life, glamorized a little, but not by much from what I've been told by her contemporaries - now all gone. My mother is now the eldest living member of her family.

Some of grandma's poetry was about how she felt about things. Nature seemed to be a favorite topic. So did nostalgia. I can relate to that. Nostalgic thoughts are haunting to those who understand how different life could be had certain decisions been made differently. To have imagination is to have regret, for it is imagination which allows us to understand we mucked up at times.

I think some people claim they have no regrets because their regrets do not immobilize them. The fact they can go on with their lives without moaning all day makes them think they do not regret any of their choices or actions. Personally, I think that's bullsh*t. Anyone who does not regret the pain they have caused others is a complete horse's a*s, in my book. And if you believe you have lived more than a few years on this planet without causing someone else unnecessary pain then you are an idiot. Or a horse's a*s.

I think one of my grandma's regrets was that she never fully developed any of her talents. She was gifted in many areas: garment making, gardening, painting, sculpture, and writing. I don't recall ever hearing her sing, or try to play an instrument.

But her talents remained raw all of her life. Most of what she did were things for her to enjoy and the world to miss. I believe that is why she was so happy about the writing she did which was published. She got to share it with the world.

Artists are like that. And writers are artists of a sort.

We don't paint with pigment and we don't sculpt with clay or metal. We do not grow plants and we do not sew cloth.

Writers paint with words. We sculpt with words. We grow words and sew them together. We are artists of varying degree. Some have become masters at the craft. Some of us are fledglings, working solely with raw talent.

But master or novice, we all share one thing in common: We have a need to share our art.