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Letting Go Of Regrets

omgiatethewholepie

Letting Go Of Regrets
by Beach T. Weston
Just Beachie Column

When you have done-yourself-wrong or have been done-wrong-to (forgiving, letting go) can be a challenge. Sometimes no matter how hard you try to let go—regret, and anger inevitably creep into the mix of emotions. And let’s face it, regret is a word with a doggie-downer tone. It’s also a word that is probably unavoidable during some point in our life.

“They” say we must release regret—let it fly like a peaceful dove being set free from its cage. We must be strong and move past disappointment, and sad remorse.

Easily said, not easily done.

Over ninety-five percent of us have at some time fallen into this tragic state—where frustration consumes you, and condemning self-examination leads to a mass of one-on-one, soul bearing conversations. The why question plagues your day: Why didn’t I make better choices? Why wasn’t I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?

The why questions are usually accompanied by the if only: If only I’d been wiser. If only I was more confidence. If only I didn’t let ridiculous people hurt me or use me. 

And then we return to the why question: Why didn’t I stand up for myself? Why…if only…why…if only…why…if only…

Our regrets turn into lava streams, flowing fast and hot, fresh from the volcanic eruptions in our minds.

An Island’s lava flow eventually finds a path to the sea where it fizzles, and expands the size and strength of the Island. In a perfect world our disappointments would be like lava, and fizzle—leaving behind a stronger mind and body. In a perfect world.

While most regrets are not funny, thank goodness once in a while a regret can be humorous—after the fact of course.


Why didn’t I drink Shirley Temples instead of five Cosmopolitans. I might not have gotten married at the Elvis Chapel drive-thru singing Viva Las Vegas!

Why did I have to eat the entire pie!? Not two or three pieces, but the entire pie!

Why did I go swimming when there was a beach sign posted: Swim at your own risk, gray water. The picture of the fish with a large fin should have been the give-a-way. If I had taken heed, I might not have a nibble scar on my big toe.


Personally, I’m a stew-pot, and letting go of regret is not easy for me. I’m not one to turn the other cheek, but I do believe in loving yourself and seeking a healthy release for anger.

In the spirit of finding peace invite a few good friends over for a letting-go-party. Ask your friends to write on a piece of paper their regret or regrets. They can choose to share or not share. This will be followed by burning the piece of paper (fire extinguisher in hand)—releasing the burden to the Great Spirit In The Sky.

If your friends need additional therapy, I suggest joining a kick boxing class. It’s good exercise and almost way better than kicking yourself or the fool who done-ya-wrong. I said, almost.

In peace and love and a good kick in the patootie,
Beach

© Beach T. Weston 2019

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Don’t Ya Just Love a Good Ghost Story?

BOO! gost pic6

Don’t Ya Just Love a Good Ghost Story?
by Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”

While this particular column may have no profound meaning—it will be a source of spooky entertainment. For who doesn’t love a good ghost story? It’s an imaginative story told to me many moons ago, and has remained forever in my index of EErie and hair-raising tales. Completely untrue I’m sure, but then again, maybe not.

“It’s time for a chilling tale”, announced my thespian friend.

Actors can exaggerate at times. Being one, I can appreciate the necessity of hammy-embellishment. However, this particular Ham-spian was over the top when he began to tell a ghostly story complete with unsettling sounds, and unexplainable sightings.

“It was late summer,” he began. “I was hiking alone, deep in the woods—being one with nature. Birds trilled from tree tops, and pine needles crunched under my boots. I was charmed by the rustling leaves (announcing an early fall) when I noticed about five-hundred feet from the hiking trail, flickers of gold light streamed through a grove of Pine trees. I was enticed by curiosity and proceeded to follow the source of strange illumination. As I entered the grove, the trees seemed prudently planted—as if arranged to skillfully lead me to a dilapidated, two-story house. Faded green shutters dangled from corroded hinges, and blocks of wood shingles shifted in the breeze. The old house telepathically invited me to enter. I stepped onto the rickety porch and the front door opened as if I was being welcomed, but by whom!? There was no one there…”

At this point in the tale, everyone who had gathered around Ham-spian was completely engaged. We knew he was full of it, but the story was damn intriguing and sucked us into the moment of story-telling-reality. A place where part of you knows it couldn’t possibly be true, and the other part, I want to believe in fairy tales, believes it to be fact.

“…I entered the living room…the couch was covered in a stained yellow sheet, and tables looked as if they had never been dusted. There were no footprints or fingerprints, only decaying books and a broken lantern. As I continued to investigate, the upstairs floorboards began to creak. The sound near to a moan. I shouted, “IS THERE SOMEONE THERE?” No answer. The creaking traveled above my head and onto the stairwell landing. And as it did…a whoosh of cold air needled my skin. And then…an unearthly growl reverberated off the walls.”

“What the hell did you do!?”

“I ran! Of course. As fast as I could! Out the front door and back through the tree lined path. My heart has never beat so fast. It was damn weird. But, for some reason…I’m not sure why…I came to a dead halt…as if my feet were stuck in quicksand. I turned to the house, and what I saw in the second-story window you won’t believe…” 

There was utter silence. You could have heard a strand of hay hit the floor.

Red eyes! Two…glowing…redeyes. Ahhh Woooooo!!!” Ham-spian howled—his fingers making exaggerated clawing jesters.

Chances are Ham-spian’s story was a wheelbarrow of horse manure, although he swears to this day that he saw the red eyes, and that they often haunt his dreams.

Yeah right.

But then again, many say ghost and hauntings really exist.

I shall explore more of this phenomenon in columns to come. But for now—next time you sit around a campfire, roasting your vegetarian hot dogs, listen to the sounds of the night as you tell stories of ghosts and spirits past.

In peace, love and a few EEECHS! and BOOS!
Beach

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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Oy Vey!!! Another New Year!

oy vey new year colored fireworks

Oy Vey!!! Another Year!
By Beach T. Weston
“Just Beachie Column”

It’s 2016, time to start afresh! Make new plans! Clean out the closets! Clean the garage and make room for the car! Loose the under-arm jiggle! Firm up the ab’s! Blah…blah…blah! An endless list…right!?

The first week of January, 2016, I half-heartedly began to write my New Year’s resolutions when I realized, I had completed very few of my resolutions from 2015. And then I realized, there were unfulfilled ambitions dating back to…well…let’s just say a long time ago. The good news was at least half of them were no longer necessary or meaningful. So I scratched them off the list.

Yeah!

Progress had been made.

Sort of.

At least I had removed cobwebs and wiped the dust off of long-held-goals. For a moment, I was proud of myself, I dared to move forward instead of sitting on the beach and never getting my toes wet.

As I proceeded, I wondered if “The List” would be worth it. Maybe I should just say phooey to New Year’s resolutions. Phooey to making the same ole promises, half of which I probably wouldn’t keep. My new list began to give me a self-fulfilled prophecy of disappointment. I wanted to feel happy! To feel inspired! Not feel a sense of Auld Lange Syne melancholy.

Continuing to ponder on my hopes and dreams, questions popped into my mind: Is the New Year really a new beginning? Is the New Year a time to vow that we will rid ourselves of bad behavior and conditions, which no longer nourish our souls?

The questions reverberated off the walls of my mind. I flashed to the memory of yodeling from the rim of the Grand Canyon; the re-echo bounced around until tranquil silence was restored.

It was clear to me…forging forward into a more peaceful, loving life is imperative.

But, here’s a thought: What if a New Year became a time for completion of the old, not listing the promise of the new. Maybe once again listing the twenty pounds you swore you’d loose in the 20th century would be fruitless. Perhaps instead of a resolution’s list, create a different kind of list. Perhaps a more humorous list?


     In the spirit of humor may I suggest a few title possibilities:

     A) Let’s Wrap It Up!

     B) Poo Or Get Off The Pot!

     C) Fix It Or Forget About It!


Personally, I prefer Poo Or Get Off The Pot! It makes me laugh, and as it has been proven, laughter can move mountains. Or in this case; laughter can help us clear our life’s clutter and achieve our heart’s desires. And have fun doing it!

 Think of the beginning of a New Year as a pile of Elephant Dung in the middle of the room. You can ignore it or clean it up. If you choose to ignore the dung it will eventually stink! If you choose to clean it up, as messy as it may be—the sweet smell of success will permeate the room, and filter through your life.

Hau’oli Makahiki Hou!  Happy New Year!

In Peace and Love
Beach

© Beach T. Weston 2016

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