I come from a family, and a tradition, that is historically steeped in guilt.
Visits home used to end on a sour note, despite the best of intentions. We would contort our schedules and sublimate our priorities to visit family. Then, without fail, this script would play out:
Me: It's been a really nice visit.
Dad: You need to come more often! [Intending to express: "I really appreciated your prioritizing this visit to us." Lamentably spoken in Guilt as his native language, which loses a great deal in the translation. Most often for the speaker.]
Me: Seriously? Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to make this happen? [Things devolve. I am inevitably embarrassed at my overreaction, but we patch things up by phone the following week.]
Strangely, the pandemic eased our situation. We drove up and back for day-long, socially-distanced outdoor meals in the yard together. We always felt the effort was appreciated, and we always left wanting more of the other's company.
With a newfound understanding of the inability to take health for granted, the most dominant feeling was gratitude.
This all occurred at a time when a second shift in perspective occurred at a more individual level.
Growing older and achier, seeing friends diagnosed with cancer, watching colleagues go from invincible to vulnerable as they become patients themselves - all this means that I can't help but see mounting evidence of human frailty wherever I look.
Strangely, this doesn't bother me as it once might have. I've learned to take more pride than shame in my human frailty. The knowledge of future withering makes the bloom that remains sweeter in the moment.
It also obviates the need to respond to guilt; time is too short to dwell in failing to live up to the expectations of other people.