Regrets. We all have them.

These days of quarantine, I find myself being drawn more and more to British shows that star older people for some reason.

This one is called 'Edie.' Edie is an 80-something woman whose husband had dies and who rediscovers a long-forgotten goal she had as a much-younger woman - climbing a Scottish peak. Her adult daughter is frustrated by much of what happens in her life, so she sells the family flat and stashes her mom in a 'retirement home,' where she spends her time making flower arrangements and listening to a bad singer sing songs she hates, badly at that.

She lasts less than one week.

Then she finds that postcard with the peak. She calls her daughter, leaves a message, and takes the train to Scotland.

Of course, this is a movie about aging, a film about last chances and opportunities pondered and taken. The last chance to do something longed for, to visit a place dreamt of, to make that one final climb up a peak from long ago. For some reason, that is what attracts me. Well, that and British police dramas.

But as I sit here in my empty house with a full fridge, fancy knives, and high-quality pans, I do not think about food or eating. I tend to think of those things I never did.

Or at least things I imagine I never did.

There is probably some word for that, one kind of like reminiscing about things not done. [Can one truly 'reminisce,' which is defined as "to think about past experiences or events," about things not done, yet dreamt about?]

So. what "things" do I imagine I wanted to do and never did? As a Traveler, with a capital "T" and defined as one who has traveling blood in his veins, as opposed to one who travels (small "t") for work or a living -- like a truck driver -- I can look at a photo of someplace and want to see it in person. A lake in Scotland, a river in Thailand, a mountain in Nepal, a valley in Alaska. Bahá'í Houses of Worship on all continents and local Houses in various countries.

Much of it, of course, is romanticized, like the desire to fly an airplane without a radio across the country I had 40 or more years ago.

Long ago, I read a book by Richard Bach, the author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, called Biplane, written in 1966 that described his mostly-accurate flight much earlier in his life in a time when he could make such a flight in mostly uncontrolled airspace from North Carolina to California after he bought an old World War I trainer biplane. He bypassed airports with operating air traffic control towers, landed in farmers' fields to spend the night, dealt with storms and cold and rain and birds ... and unhappy farmers. He ran out of fuel just short of the runway at his destination, crashed, survived, and wrote a book about it. I do not know how much of it is true and how much is fiction and I do not care. I still have that well-worn book and read it from time to time.

The 80-something protagonist in this movie, Edie makes that one trip that she has wanted to make for her entire life. She braves the loss of an oar in a rowboat, a steep climb that her knees really do not want to make, loss of her protective tent...and she makes the last few steps to the top alone and unaided, to cast her glance over the far distance she has longed to see. And she plants her 'flag' at the top, a pebble she picked up along her journey.

As a 70-something, I ponder all those things. The trips not taken, sights not seen, flights not made. Pilgrimage not made. And I reminisce. Or whatever the word is for thinking about a dream not realized.

Longing, perhaps. Not regret.

What do Facebook and East Nashville and Ankara have in common?

As I sit here this day reading a news report about the horrendous tornado that struck East Nashville, Tennessee, in the early morning hours a couple of days ago, resulting in significant damage, destruction, and death in a highly-populated area, I am reminded that Facebook, a medium that is often scorned, has a valuable place in the world.

On my own Facebook feed, I read threads about Bahá'ís whose apartment complexes were damaged beyond salvage, those whose domiciles were completely destroyed, and those who have not yet been heard from.

Leave aside the fact that for Bahá'ís, this is a very spiritual time of the year, our Nineteen Day Fast, and that we pray for divine guidance on every day. Things might change - as I write this, 26 have been killed and many people are still unaccounted for - but so far, none of my Facebook friends have family members who have been injured or worse. The only way I could possibly know is through Facebook. Some share their stories - as much as they can, having just survived something that has, no doubt, shaken them to their core - and some help others in small and large ways without expectation of thanks. They all have a very long, arduous path in front of them.

At times like these for them and their friends, near and far, being able to connect with those friends and for those friends to rally whatever support is needed - like a GoFundMe page that has already been established for one, resulting in several thousands of dollars already - the social medium called Facebook is a valuable helper. And I am sure there are thousands of others sharing stories and support on Facebook beside Bahá'ís.

So what do Facebook, East Nashville, and Ankara have in common?

Facebook. A place where high school friends from 50+ years ago can reconnect with their old chums and meet new ones.

Facebook. A place where those suffering a grievous killer tornado can go to ask for help, no matter how timidly or unwantedly...and have those requests answered quickly by others not in similar situations.

So yes, Facebook can be a bad place, a place easily abused for political, financial, or other nefarious desires. It can also be a place to meet, laugh, cry, ask for and give help when needed.