I don’t know what might have been. I will never know. I made a decision. There was a result and a consequence. I have no power to change either the result or the consequence. Time’s arrow goes in one direction.
Regret means I believe I could have made a different decision. Okay, if that is true, stop reading this. I mean it. Now!
What happened? Whoa! You’re still reading, still stuck with a decision you made to continue. You will never know what might have happened had you stopped. You can postulate “something.” What? A different outcome? Some wonderful alternative “now.”
Regret seems to be tied to an assumed control, a mastery of the now that includes an infallible foresight. You don’t have it. No one really does. You can’t change the swing of a golf club afterward. You can’t choose to slightly alter the angle of your head after the head-shot (header in British soccer). You can’t redo the faulty transfer of calculations that led to the loss of the Mars Climate Orbiter and $327 million because the spacecraft didn’t hit its target altitude over the Red Planet (One group used English units, but another used metric units of measure for maneuvers. Suffice it to say that the use of two different measures led to the faraway destruction of the spacecraft). You can’t throw a curveball after you already threw a fastball to the batter who hit the homerun. Time’s arrow, you know, goes in one direction. You can’t hit a target that is no longer there, and the past is the absence of a target.
Regret looks back. Re, derived from Latin, in any word means “back” or “again.” Recall, recur, remember, redo, re-whatever. The etymology of regret is a bit sketchy, but it does combine re with, most likely, a word for “weep,” “bewail,” “moan.”
Now think. If you weep, bewail, or moan, what will you change? What could you have done differently you didn’t do differently? Enough bewailing! The $327 million is gone with the failed Martian orbiter. True, that’s a big mistake for NASA guys who are supposed to be smart. Goodbye, years of planning, calculating, building, launching, watching in anticipation—all gone in a simple failure to use consistent units of measure. It was a simple mistake, definitely, but with all their science and all their computers NASA scientists can’t kill that mistake with time’s arrow, a projectile more powerful than the Orbiter’s launch vehicle. Same for the slice or hook on the golf course. Same for the head-shot on the soccer field. Same for the pitch in baseball. Hit the target in front of you. You get one shot. The prize is more targets, each a consequence of your aim on the previous shot. Just make sure you know the unit of measure when you sight your next target.
Regret means I believe I could have made a different decision. Okay, if that is true, stop reading this. I mean it. Now!
What happened? Whoa! You’re still reading, still stuck with a decision you made to continue. You will never know what might have happened had you stopped. You can postulate “something.” What? A different outcome? Some wonderful alternative “now.”
Regret seems to be tied to an assumed control, a mastery of the now that includes an infallible foresight. You don’t have it. No one really does. You can’t change the swing of a golf club afterward. You can’t choose to slightly alter the angle of your head after the head-shot (header in British soccer). You can’t redo the faulty transfer of calculations that led to the loss of the Mars Climate Orbiter and $327 million because the spacecraft didn’t hit its target altitude over the Red Planet (One group used English units, but another used metric units of measure for maneuvers. Suffice it to say that the use of two different measures led to the faraway destruction of the spacecraft). You can’t throw a curveball after you already threw a fastball to the batter who hit the homerun. Time’s arrow, you know, goes in one direction. You can’t hit a target that is no longer there, and the past is the absence of a target.
Regret looks back. Re, derived from Latin, in any word means “back” or “again.” Recall, recur, remember, redo, re-whatever. The etymology of regret is a bit sketchy, but it does combine re with, most likely, a word for “weep,” “bewail,” “moan.”
Now think. If you weep, bewail, or moan, what will you change? What could you have done differently you didn’t do differently? Enough bewailing! The $327 million is gone with the failed Martian orbiter. True, that’s a big mistake for NASA guys who are supposed to be smart. Goodbye, years of planning, calculating, building, launching, watching in anticipation—all gone in a simple failure to use consistent units of measure. It was a simple mistake, definitely, but with all their science and all their computers NASA scientists can’t kill that mistake with time’s arrow, a projectile more powerful than the Orbiter’s launch vehicle. Same for the slice or hook on the golf course. Same for the head-shot on the soccer field. Same for the pitch in baseball. Hit the target in front of you. You get one shot. The prize is more targets, each a consequence of your aim on the previous shot. Just make sure you know the unit of measure when you sight your next target.
RSS Feed