(a verbal interpretation of my imaging)
I buried my regrets in Mark Twain Forest. No longer can they smother me in my sleep. Keep me awake at night. Control my spirit. I buried them, you see. In the forest.
Just like Adam, I named them. A. A. A. I named them not with words. My Exacto knife, making deep markings on the forest birch so that I can name them. Then, I divide them. Each to their own chunk of the wood. I use an ax. I divide them into the 16. The 16 regrets.
It is time. I toss them into the fire. They burn. S l o w l y. They burn much too slowly. I see that your regrets are gone, thin swirls of ashes floating away with the wind. Not mine. They hang on. They know I am not ready to say goodbye. I haven't punished myself enough yet. So when I go to the brook the wash my hands, I find that I walk away heavy, taking time to steal a glance at my burning chunks of regret still smoldering in the fire.
My teacher guides me. (Is this my teacher? Or my beloved friend guiding me?)
She guides me back to the spot. To pull these unburnt remains out of the smoke and to bury them. It is a messy job. Covering them with the earth. Saying my final goodbye. I take a moment to pound the dirt, drop my head upon that place that contains my burnt and buried regrets. "Goodbye." It is not even a whisper, just a thought.
I stumble to the brook to wash my dirty hands, to cleanse myself, to wash my hands of it. This business of regret. This business of standing still. This business of trying to explain away my broken heart.
And so it is, at these healing waters, that I am rebirthed, cleansed. Relieved of the burden. It all washes away. And I emerge. I emerge from this. I stretch into the light and I walk away. I walk away with freedom in my step. With freedom in my step.