If you want to be miserable, dwell on the past

I have spent a lot of time recently looking at old photos, envisioning interactions with people I have lost, and recreating–in my mind–places I once frequented:

I will look at the photos, zoom in to examine every facial expression of the people in them, critique the way I dressed, and wonder how much I have internally changed since that point in time.

If not photos, I will mentally conjure family and friends who have died or gone their own way, away from me. There is no blame for the latter person. In both instances, the natural process of change and death–physically and figuratively–have taken its course. But I do miss them or who we were when we were in a room together. I wonder, if they’re living, if they still think of me at all.

If not people, I remember places. For some reason, this especially saddens me. I will remember the way I accompanied my sister to a dentist appointment. Because of the pandemic, I was not allowed in the waiting room. But all the better. I sat on a lovely, little bench under the building’s extended roof. I felt safely confined by arched concrete pillars. It was almost too warm for my black cotton dress, but I was entranced by the patches of sun that curved around the pillars to hit me. It may not sound like much of a memory, but, being able to perfectly visualize this moment from more than half a decade ago and knowing I’ll never be able to go back to that place and experience the same feeling, puts me into a deep reverie.

Even worse, though, is thinking of my grandparent’s house and all the time I spent there. For all the memories I have, it was half my childhood. Now, I hate driving past their house and seeing all the changes. There’s no sign of the chicken coop from where I would carry a huge bucket of eggs to the kitchen. I cannot find the strawberries I transplanted with my grandfather nor see the apple trees I climbed. The same walnut trees edging the yard lose their fruit every summer, but it would bring me no pleasure to gather them now. And I’m sure the neighborhood boys are far away and not ready for another game of badminton.

Even while I am recollecting every seemingly ordinary detail from my life, I recognize that change is constant. As I grow older, I will always be adding to my collection of “Simple Things That Describe My Golden Years” and forgetting some of what is important to me now. Nostalgia will always be there; the golden years were once the present that always managed to slip away.

And now, in this present, backward thinking causes me to dread deaths of my loved ones and dread any life changes. I become paralyzed with fear in the current moment; I become lethargic, slothful, and incapable of happy thought.

But, the thing is, most everyone feels like me when dwelling on the past; it is a universal experience that, at best, causes one to feel bittersweet. And the bitter part is always stronger.

I want to actively get away from dwelling on the past. I don’t want to forget, but I also don’t want the past to consume all the potential my life has now. 

Isaiah 43:18-19 says: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland”

And Philippians 3:14 states: “But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

Heavenly aim aside, dwelling on the past can hinder us on our journey of the now and the future. I don’t want to look back at the end of my life and have nothing but sad visions of my younger self weeping over what had been when I still had so much life ahead of me.

There are so many good things coming, and we must not lose sight of them, muddled with ideas of what has and might have been.