The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I had a restless night of tossing and turning, packed with rather unsettling dreams. While I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a "morning person", I was rather happy to see the light outside my window this day.
After feeding the cats, loading up the dishwasher, eating breakfast, taking a shower, loading up the washing machine and then obtaining a Dunkin' Donuts ice coffee, I opened up this here blog o' mine and started ruminating about what last night meant. Also whether or not I should invest in some "sleep aids". My brain refuses to settle down these days at bed time and it's starting to drive me "round the bend".
For you see, last night's dreams were about choices made, alternative paths selected and various and sundry "might have beens" had I made one choice as opposed to another. Which led me to look up that Robert Frost poem you see above.
Now I also did a little research into said poem. Because for the first time in a number of years, I actually read it and thought about it. There were any number of smarmy, academics attempting to enlighten me with their "correct" version of what the poem actually means. I almost scrapped the idea of using this particular Frost poem, when it hit me.
Poetry is an art form. Like all art forms the artist may have had something in mind when they produced the piece. Which is all well and good. However, the impact art has on a viewer, listener or reader (as the case may be) may be totally different than what the artist intended.
Bottom line, I don't care what the snooty academics think the poem means. I know what it means to me. And that's all that really matters.
All that being said, we all make choices in life. Sometimes we are presented with a number of alternatives and we can only pick one. Sometimes the alternatives are chosen for us. No matter which, it changes the path we take through life. Two paths, nothing to choose between them, but you can only pick one.
So we wind up someplace down the road and sometimes we look back and wonder what things might have been like had we chosen differently.
That's what those dreams were about. I dreamt that I had done things differently in the past. And the choices I made were terrible, absolutely terrible. Everything I have now was gone. Everything was different and not in a good way.
Of course, they were "only" dreams. I'm sure the smarmy academics have any number of theories and explanations for dreams. I'm quite sure they are all completely full of shite. (The academics that is.) I know what my dreams mean. I saw "what might have been" and I can tell you, it wasn't good.
I am content with my lot in life. I would not go back and change one single thing. I am comfortable with who I am. And I think that's a good thing.