“If we learn anything at all as time goes by and the changing of seasons become fewer and fewer, there are things in life that cannot be fixed. It is more than possible that we will go to our graves with a great deal of personal concerns about life agendas left unresolved.”

The above was written by Sr. Joan Chittister, a prominent Benedictine nun who has written extensively about a spiritual life, including aging.

I had been reflecting on this before I read her words. You look at decisions you made that charted a course for you, and long after you see the lack of intelligence and maturity in those decisions that course still continues, for better or worse. For better, because you learn so much; for worse, because even as you see things more clearly, life goes on, you can’t double back to years ago and say I’m sorry, let’s do this over again, I’ve learned my lesson.

I look back at my years with Bernie after his stroke and always wish I’d spent more time with him, didn’t rush here and there organizing things, didn’t continue teaching and even writing. I was warned about that, and I didn’t listen. The echo goes on and on: Couldn’t you have put aside your own personal priorities just for once and, instead, loved and cared for him as much as possible?

It’s somewhat simplistic because his life and my life intertwined in a complex way, a double helix of teacher-student and husband-wife. He was the type to forgive right away, it’s my self-forgiveness that lags.

Ah, the complexities of love, especially when you’re called to put yourself aside! I had some of that growing up, and some not. I am more fortunate than many people, and less fortunate than others.

Contrary to what I’ve written so far, I don’t obsess much about the past, quite the contrary. More than ever, I want to try new things, walk new walks, and learn, always learn. I trust the moment more than ever, even when, like yesterday, I stared at the computer screen for a couple of hours while creativity took a holiday.

By now I know that nothing really disappears, even wishing for peace and wellbeing everywhere on cold mornings holding a stick of incense in from of Kwan-yin in the back. Those are not limp words that disappear in yesterday’s big winds. Using words, chants, and fragrance, I add ingredients to an indefinable heady and powerful mixture. I plan to do this for the rest of my life, though in my early years I hated ritual.

When I talked to Sensei, a/k/a Bernard Tetsugen Glassman, so many years ago about my becoming a resident of the Zen Community, I quite arrogantly said to him: “But there’s one condition. I can’t stand liturgical services. I would like to be exempt from attending.”

At that time the Zen Community had three services every day, morning, noon and night, atop the Greyston Bakery where we worked, and other teachers may have balked. He simply said, “Okay.”

How he trusted life! How he trusted the Dharma!

And yes, thinking back to Joan Chittister’s words, I will go to my grave without having fixed things. Certain momentums will go on, people I love will continue to live their lives after having been touched by my actions, for good or for bad. That karmic current will flow regardless of regrets, apologies, and even reconciliations, and—

I, too, trust life. Right now, I trust Henry’s deep brown eyes as he lays a stuffed sloth, the new toy I bought him at the Farmers’ Cooperative in Greenfield, on my lap so that I could throw it for him. The sloth has pretty good eyes, too.