“I’d rather regret the things I’ve done than regret the things I haven’t done.”
– Lucille Ball
Before I begin I feel like there needs to be a caveat to Mrs. Ball’s words… I agree with her until it comes to questions of moral rectitude, one must not violate what they know to be right or wrong simply for the sake of experience. Yes, experience is a teacher, but she is a teacher that doesn’t care whether you live or die. Wisdom steps in and allows us to learn from those who have gone before if we will allow it, and from there we can launch into the deepest life we are capable of living. In the realm of the amoral, have fun!
It was late summer; the weather was hot and muggy, even by midwestern standards. Three friends and I hit the road to a hidden gem in the hills of Tennessee. It’s a moderate sized state park that is home to some beautiful waterfalls. It’s not just the water that strikes you either—the deciduous forest that fills the area gives you a feeling of closeness, much like I would guess Fangorn Forest gave to The Fellowship of the Ring (without the intimidation).
For us, the heat made our journey sweeter; we were in search of swimming holes.
On a previous trip to the same park, another friend and I had discovered a perfect and hidden hole. We had been following a stream bed and missed the entrance to the trail. We were running short on energy and water when we stumbled upon our little oasis. My friend jumped in first without hesitation, discovering it was deeper than we had realized. Our best guess, we were staring down at a pool that was nearly twelve feet deep during a dry season and the depth meant cooler waters. A couple of hours swimming fully rejuvenated us, and we were ready to find our way back to the missed trail. I hoped someday I might return to this secret place.
Now, on this blistering humid day, I had returned, and I was hoping I could lead my friends back. I had a rough idea where we to head, but as we lept from one boulder to another, and feet became miles I started to wonder… This is a living earth and things change, more often than we notice. I climbed one last boulder and was ready to call it quits and turn around. Looking down, I could see the flat limestone stream bed that surrounded the chasm. It was still a couple of hundred yards away, but I knew it was worth the effort.
We scrambled over the remaining boulders and stopped on the shelf that stood five or six feet above the surface of the water. My friends looked at me, the question etched across their faces, “it’s hot, is it deep enough to jump in?” “Go for it. I can jump in feet first and not hit the bottom,” I said. They dropped their packs, tossed their shirts, and one by one dove in. They were obviously enjoying the cool water when they looked up at me still standing above them. They asked, “Are you going to get in?” I said, “no” then walked over to a large rock in the shade and sat down.
Anyone who knows me and has traveled with me will tell you I have a point of tiredness that causes me to isolate and be a jerk—I’m not proud of it, and every time I travel I stave off the beast a bit better.
As I starred down at the water, I hit that wall, but I was boiling enough in the heat of the day that I could have overcome. A sense of self-consciousness also struck me between the eyes. I am athletic, though I am not an athlete; I lack the killer competitive instinct to be an athlete. My friends however are athletes and they were all a couple of months removed from a spring sports season and had already started prepping for fall. I had done nothing since winter, and in my mind’s eye that difference was apparent.
My emotional wall and disdain for my physical appearance combined to create the “no” that exited my lips. There have been a lot of moments in my life when I have said, “no.” Many of them good, some of them born out of frustration. This one though is among the few that still gnaws at me. It was still an amazing trip, and I got to give my friends an amazing memory, but there in lies the problem, I didn’t share the memory with them. I was there, but not really present. It was a no that came from a selfish place, and it robbed my friends and me of memories we could have shared.
I have forgiven myself repeatedly for that day and my friends don’t even remember it happening (I asked), but I still think back on that day and want to return and jump in with them and build the memories that should already exist.
Learning to say “no” is a substantial gift, but make sure it is a gift you wield well. Don’t let foolishness rob you of life.