Photo by Tom Starkweather
In reasons pertaining to zen and the art of artificial insemination I find myself this early fall in New England, a place I have spent little to no time in. Not only that, but I have found myself jogging on the Robert Frost trail, and like most who would set foot upon this particular trail, thinking to his celebrated poem, The Road Not Taken.
Now this was a poem I was forced to memorize back in the 7th grade by a certain teacher that went by the boozy name of Mr. Hennessy. As far as poems go, this was a good one for 7th graders to tackle namely because it was short and spare, and hence, easy to follow. I can't say that it had a monumental impact on me back then, but I like to think that I understood the simple point of the matter and that perhaps, perhaps it was one more encouraging nod that I could head off and just do my own thing.
Today, I read the poem and like Frost, seem half-pleased with myself for the journey I have chosen. Maybe it's because of the crisp autumn air, or the delicious apple cider, or perhaps because this California girl gets to rub shoulders with the golden-red-yellow New England leaves that I am feeling generally all optimisic-y. Lord know, it has not always turned out the way I wanted (just read the last year, yes year! of trying to make a baby or the last five or so years of my heartache in romance), but it has been a journey entirely of my devising. And at the ripe, old age of 41, when I think about the road not taken, I have few regrets.
And so, with the Occupy fill-in-the-blank springing up all over the place and with a recent birthday under my belt and with the shortening days and with the here-I-go-again-trying-to-have-a-kid thing, I decide on this day, not unlike all others, to be hopeful. And maybe I can one day look back and think that that has made all the diference.
