Sometimes they come back. I’m pretty sure there’s a horror movie with that title, but for some reason that phrase is stuck in my head. Sounds ominous, or vaguely threatening, but here we are, starting over again in a way, ruminating over the past year, and wondering what the future will bring, and whether it will be a rehash of same-old, same-old or some fresh hell.  As others make resolutions and recount those who have died this year (interesting to me how soon we forget), I find myself in a place, for the first time in my life, of not really paying attention to either of those things.

We’ve all seen the birthday cards that wish us “many happy returns.” It’s kind of quaint these days, I think, but the thought that someone who cares about us is thereby wishing us a long and happy life is a sweet one. Then there are the “returns” we’d rather not be wished. Two years ago I spent New Year’s Eve at a dive bar listening to a friend’s band and spending a fun few hours in a room crowded with partiers. It was a great time, until a few days later when I realized I had contracted COVID at the celebration. Again. After having had multiple vaccines, and the illness itself three years earlier, not long after receiving one of those aforementioned vaccines. I know that return bouts of COVID and other communicable illnesses are part of being human and living in a community.* But I, like most people, like returning things to be expected and planned for, like birthdays, holidays and hockey season.

And, of course, the changing of the year. Every twelve months, we welcome in a new year, even though there’s no real difference between the day before and the day after in terms of living our lives other than perhaps a celebration involving food, drink, noisemaking, counting down, watching a ball drop, kissing and perhaps watching college football. Same as every year, actually. We do love our traditions, which offer the illusion of stability and continuity, comforting and assuring us that we can predict what will happen. Humans have a need to quantify and categorize things – even time and space – making it important to us to farewell the “old,” and celebrate the “new,” marking time in a way we all share and understand. As time moves on, we’ll wax nostalgic about the good old days and times gone by, or try to remember the horrible mistakes we and our community made, and vow to be sure they don’t happen again.

But they usually do. Sometimes in different clothes, differently named (one notable ill-fated exception has given us the return of the same-named cataclysmic individual), and given different justifications. But they’re the same old things. We see clothes and colors and fabric from my days as a kid in the 70s on designer runways here in the following century. Television programs and movies from seventy or more years ago are played non-stop on streaming channels – even (maybe especially, depending on the message being pushed) those that weren’t appropriate, and are rife with sexism, racism, genderism and all the other -isms that we thought we had grown beyond. It’s easy to fall back on the devil we know when times are  uncertain. When they do return, some see them as an old friend. A reminder of a time when things were “simpler,” or “great.” Yet we forget how people suffered during those times. And when individual groups suffer, we all, as one species, suffer along with them, whether we recognize, or admit it or not.

Because Venus retrograde haunts my natal chart (learn more about that here and here), it’s my lot in this life to relive karmic relationships until I figure them out, forgive myself and others for their part in the pain, and try to work through them to the point where they stay in the past where they belong. For years, during these retrograde returns, I was faced with memories, regrets, questions – how could I have let that happen, why did that happen to me, how could I have avoided it or made it better, what should I do about it now, etc. But with each that passed, I felt the depth of my growth. At this point, I truly don’t notice them anymore, and realize that not only do those questions have no answers, but that I no longer feel the need to ask them.

After six decades, I’ve learned that much of the time I suffer needlessly, because – I make myself suffer. I allow painful memories to return. I dwell, I ponder, I ruminate. I go over and over and over things that are in the past – sometimes long past (think grade school). This masochistic need to try to “fix” the past is of course futile. Things that have happened are gone. They no longer exist – they’ve been erased by the passage of time. They are a figment of my imagination. In fact in the instant they happened, they already began to die. Only their memory remains, and I can choose to keep that memory alive or not. I can suffer through “how could I have” or “how could they have” for the rest of my life, or I can choose to let it all go. To accept that, yes, those things happened, yes, I was unkind, or stupid, or inept, or taken advantage of, or (fill in the blank).  That someone I loved abused or betrayed or took advantage of me. But that time is gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t take it back, or change history, and I can’t have a do-over. Perhaps I can apologize, if that would help the other person, or confront someone who caused me pain, but … why? Best, in almost all cases, to move on.

I’ve been trying hard to be mindful of my thoughts, and asking – “is there anything I can do about this at this point?” Almost always, the answer is no, and in the rare instance that it’s yes, I ask whether I should do anything, and the answer is again no. Once in a while the good memories surface – fun times with family and friends, loved ones who have crossed over, successful accomplishments, times when I was especially brave, or strong, or helpful or kind. Things that make me smile. But then I let those go, as well. They’re just as gone as the times that embarrass, hurt or shame me.

As for the “returns” – those things that keep coming back and ask me to “do something” about them, if they’re truly intrusive and unpleasant or harmful (this includes people as well as thoughts and memories), my challenge is to acknowledge them, thank them for the learning and growth they’ve given me, and … let them go. I know that it’ll take time and practice. Before they stop coming back, tapping me on the shoulder and saying – “Hey… remember me?,” I’ll end up with a few sleepless hours or recriminating thoughts. But every time I recognize the cycle of memory-shame-regret-depression is one step closer to releasing myself from the shackles that hold me in the past. This practice can be expanded to things very recent, but still past. Just yesterday I realized that, through my negligence, I lost something that was very important to me. Although I’m very sad, I have been able to let go of the self-hate that usually follows such incidents, because I realize it can’t be changed. Progress, for sure.

And while I’m at it – let’s talk a moment about living for the future. New-year musings are all about what’s to come. The resolutions we make and almost inevitably break focus on planning the year ahead as if we know what’s going to happen, or can force our expectations to come into being through planning. The fact is, we have no more control over the future than we do over the past. We never truly know what will happen month to month, day to day, moment to moment. We simply live into each second, sometimes despite our plans, accepting and adapting to what comes, like it or not, hopefully grateful to be alive to see it unfold.

In the meantime, I’ll welcome in the dawning of the new year with open arms, wish you well – and will endeavor to remember always that the present moment is all we have. And it shouldn’t be any other way.

*Postlogue – When I had COVID the first time in late 2020, I unfortunately lost my sense of taste and smell. As a foodie, this loss was devastating to me. I had heard that most people who do lose these senses due to COVID could count on getting them back within weeks or months of having lost them. Sadly, I went years with these senses being gone, off, or “weird.” I had resigned myself to the fact that I was, once again, the exception to the rule, and would never regain them. Until sometime last fall, when I started realizing that I was picking up the odd scent, and little by little I’ve been noticing more and more scents and tastes are starting to return. Sometimes they really do come back.