There has been much tragedy in my life; at least half of it actually happened. –Mark Twain

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that a little over a year ago, I wrote Recesses of the Mind, a post about holding on to the wisdom gleaned from a difficult life event without having to relive all the painful memories every time you want to recall the lessons learned.

Conventional wisdom says that time heals all wounds, and I think there is a lot of truth in this statement. Life carries on. New things come up that demand your attention, and before you know it, an event that demanded your full mindshare at one time is now retreating in your rear-view mirror; an ever-more distant memory with each passing day.

Conventional wisdom also paraphrases George Santayana and says that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. Another pearl of wisdom if ever there was one.

The tension between these two truisms is hard to ignore–and we are faced with it first hand whenever we have experienced the anguish of a broken spirit. We want to heal, to move forward, to rebuild ourselves–this time, even stronger. But we want to do it without reliving the agonizing details of each disappointment, each loss or betrayal, or each painful thing said or done in the throes of the event itself.

Going forward, we might acknowledge that, while painful, the life lessons were valuable and are likely to be useful again in the future. The sickening idea of having to repeat the same mistakes again is a powerful motivator to keep the lessons close at hand. For most of us, the last thing we want to do is go back to that dark place and find ourselves doomed to repeating history–so we make sure that we don’t forget.

It’s a paradox. We don’t want to forget, but remembering keeps it alive.

So what’s the middle ground? How do we heal and carry on with life without the albatross and weight of painful events? I think the answer lies–at least in part–in how we choose to remember.

My default mode is often to remember an event, good or bad, in a way that is emotionally loaded. I relive the moments of triumph or the gut-wrenching details. I hold a grudge. I’ve come to realize that despite my best efforts and intentions, too often, I hold onto something because I’m afraid that if I let it go, I’ll find myself back at square one, repeating the same mistakes and covering (again), the same painful ground.

But one thing is assured: If I keep picking the scab off the wound by reliving events in my mind, I’m certain to recover the same ground–mentally if nothing else.  If I instead remember the lessons–but without reliving every detail–yes, it’s possible that I’ll find myself in the same boat, but it’s unlikely. In other words, there are no guarantees–and if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t control every event–but one path of remembering guarantees anguish, the other carries with it a possibility, but not an inevitability.

Which brings me around to the real lesson, and the likely reason that it’s been such a hard one for me to learn: There is no way to guarantee that lightening won’t strike twice. As a person who tries mightily to avoid being blindsided by always staying two-steps ahead to avoid missteps and misfortune, it’s hard to accept that I might have to learn some of the hardest and most painful life lessons twice. Or, god forbid, three times. My tendency to keep painful lessons continually fresh in my mind is actually a misguided attempt to keep the situation under control. To remember it (all too well) so that I will never, ever be doomed to repeating it. The problem is that worrying about something doesn’t prevent it from happening, it just makes me unhappy in the interim.

So instead, I’m trying something new–and it’s taking practice. I’m trying to give myself more credit for having learned from events, and for having integrated the lessons into my being. I don’t need to keep reliving it to remember what I learned; it’s all there. In me. When and if I’m faced with drawing upon that knowledge, I’ll feel it and I’ll know when and how to bring it forth. And anyway, isn’t that the point? Don’t we want to be able to call on that wisdom, especially as we get older and as life throws more challenges our way?

I’m reminded of a guy I used to work for. A horrific bully, a screamer, a name caller, a thrower of files and papers, a jerk. I promised myself that I would never again work for someone like that. And I haven’t. Not because I haven’t encountered other bullies in the workplace–I have–but because I was able to identify them much earlier and to keep a healthy distance. A distance that enabled me to acknowledge that they are in the professional orbit, but to limit my personal exposure.

The likelihood that I will experience the same lesson in the exact same form twice is slim. Not zero, but not likely. And the good news–and something I’ve observed from prior life lessons–is that even if you don’t relive the gory details, when you catch even a whiff of similarity to a previous circumstance, it’s like muscle memory. You know exactly what to do and how to do it. And for that, we can thank the lessons of history.