Regrets? Here are a few

I WISH I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself - not the life others expected of me. It's the Number One regret of the dying, in all their crystal-clear lucidity.

Bronnie Ware, who worked for years as a palliative carer, has published the five regrets she heard again and again. So herewith notes to self, starting with that number one: don't be bound by fear of failure. Think of all those hesitations to leap into something risky because of fear - yet the only true failing, of course, is in not doing anything. We need to appreciate setbacks; acknowledge the courage it's taken to get that far. Try saying a little more "I will" rather than "I should". Appreciate change. Rupture's a gift, always, in some way. Our lives are made rich by risking, not by surrounding ourselves with a boundary of "no". And to live that life true to yourself you have to stop worrying about what other people think of you. "Arm me, audacity," Shakespeare said. Yes.

Number Two regret: I wish I hadn't worked so hard. This from people horrified that so much of their lives was spent on the great treadmill of just getting by. Our ambitions so often, of course, involve that voracious god of Mammon. But a life driven by love is preferable to a life driven by greed; the Gina Rinehart saga teaches us that happiness has nothing to do with obscene accumulations of unshared wealth. It lies in the simplest of moments. Walking down to the sea. Impromptu sunset barbies with mates. My mother brushing my daughter's hair. A song irrepressibly launching me into dancing (sorry kids, I know this one's excruciating for you). Hearing the bell at my boys' school, from home, as I write; calling them out to play as I keep tabs on the happy rhythm of their day. The Aussie bush in the golden hour of sunset when everything stills, pauses, softens. So. Exhale. Stop. Never forget the potency of silence, and simplicity. My guide in all this, Emily Dickinson, seizing the wonder in living: "Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A Circus passed my house. Still I feel the red in my mouth ... The lawn is full of south and the odours tangle, and I hear to-day for the first time the river in the tree."

Regret Number Three: I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings. Sartre said an essential freedom is the ability to say no. But do we do it, enough? It's strong people who have the courage to show their vulnerability. The constant constraint of the pleaser, the yes person, can be incredibly depleting. Women, especially, fall into this trap. Feelings aren't honestly articulated, and what can result is a festering resentment, a corrosive bitterness - I've noticed this particularly with some women of the pre-feminist generation. They weren't meant to shout loud, weren't taught to, and the frustration eats through them.

Number Four: I wish I'd stayed in touch with friends. Life closes over us, we lose contact with people, drift away - but as my beloved Aunty Kay says, there's not a person alive who doesn't want to be told they're loved. There are three cherished people I've let drift, ridiculously, in the great rush of life. This will be rectified. And of course, doing something for someone else helps not only them, but ourselves; it buoys us.

So to number five, the most poignant of the lot: I wish I'd let myself be happier. Such a simple thing. Years ago I was living in a shared house in Alice with a succession of gorgeous women, all working hard, cooking up a storm, playing, loving, laughing a lot. "Never lose your sense of ludic, girls!" declared a visiting artist. But we do, as worries and responsibilities gather pace. Yet the bad times dissolve, always. The lows come into our lives to draw us into the vast, glittery vividness of what it is to be human, so we can then venture into the world wiser, richer, more compassionate. And a sense of ludic, a light heart? It's a great armory for living. The dying teach us that.

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