Directional Signs

Don't Go This WAY!
(Sidewalk note encountered on recent morning run)

If only life's directional signs were this clear. Instead, I get the Cheshire Cat telling me that any road will do!

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat.

"I don’t much care where--" said Alice.

"Then it doesn’t matter which way you go," said the Cat.

"--so long as I get SOMEWHERE," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you’re sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

[Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland]

Possible Impossible

Flying Bathtub at the local children's museum
June 2011

I've been thinking of this quote from Alice in Wonderland:

Alice laughed.  "There's no use trying," she said:  "one can't believe impossible things."  "I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen.  "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day.  Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."  [Through the Looking Glass, Chapter 5]

These days, my life feels full of impossibilities, with every option a painful one.   Maybe I need more practice believing impossible things?

Wednesday's Word -- Trust

I'm not one to follow celebrities (or think that what I think about them matters one lick), but I have to admit that I have always admired Maria Shriver.  She is a strong, smart, capable woman.  Have you read her 2009 Shriver Report on women?  You should.  Right now (whether she cares or not), my heart is aching (and still admiring her) for what she's enduring.

So this week I'm thinking about the word TRUST, and what happens when it is gone.

"Trust" means "firm reliance on the integrity, ability, or character of a person or thing."  It is "something committed into the care of another."  Like the word ENDURE, it comes from the Indo-European root deru-, meaning "hard."  The word TREE comes from the same root.  So fitting, because I really can't imagine anything more trustworthy, steadfast and immovable than a tree.  

Times like these --  trust chopped to the ground -- leave a woman sitting on the stump, mustering the strength to get up and go plant her heart in more fertile ground.           

Wednesday's Word -- Forgive

"I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night."  (From The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, p. 359)

My musings on The Brothers Karamazov (along with circumstances in my own cell) have me thinking about forgiveness.  The word means "to excuse for a fault or an offense; to pardon."  To forgive is "to renounce anger or resentment" or to "absolve from payment of a debt."  Breaking the word apart, it comes from the Old English for-giefan, meaning to give away (for = away and "giefan" = to give).  The related Latin word "perdonare" means "to give completely, without reservation" (per = thoroughly and donare = to give).  And I like that the word "forget" (so often attached to forgive) means "to lose one's hold."


Give it (the right to exact a pound of flesh) away and let it (the pain) pack up and go.  Easier said than done.

Also makes me think of a favorite poem on the topic.  A forgiveness tree bears sweeter fruit than a poison tree, after all.      

Holding On To the Ticket

Dostoyevsky's notes for Chapter 5
of The Brothers Karamazov

It's been nearly a month since I finished reading Fyodor Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov.  The novel has been on my mental to-read list for a long time, and I worked through its nearly 800 pages with determination.  I must admit that I let out at least a tiny sigh of relief when I reached the end, eager to move on to lighter fare.  But passages, images and themes from the book keep coming to my mind unbidden, sitting here and then there, trying out the rooms like a mental goldilocks.  Here is one.

I cannot sum up The Brothers Karamazov in this short post -- at least not in any manner that could do it justice.  The short of it is that there are three brothers, Dmitri (28), Ivan (24), and Alyosha (20).  All three share a father (Fyodor Pavlovich), but Dmitri is from Fyodor's first marriage, and Ivan and Alyosha are from his second marriage.  Both mothers are dead, Fyodor is a "scoundrel" (to use a word Dostoyevsky uses repeatedly throughout the book), and none of his sons really love him.  In fact, at least two of them (Dmitri and Ivan) would like to see him dead.  Dmitri, the oldest, is much like his father -- a sensualist and a scoundrel.  Ivan is an intelligent atheist.  And Alyosha (the "cherub") is a novice monk who believes fervently in God, but is not without chinks in the armor of his faith.  To make a very long story short (without spoiling all the twists and turns), someone murders the father, Fyodor, and Dmitri is arrested and tried for the crime.  I won't tell you how the book ends, because that's really not the point of this post (and you should slog through it yourself, in any event!).        

Plot aside, the book is about free will, God, faith, doubt, reason, sin, virtue, truth, deceit, guilt, love, and so much more.  But it is especially about suffering.  In one particulary gripping chapter (Book 5, Chapter 4 "Rebellion"), Ivan talks/rants to younger brother Alyosha about the inequity of the suffering in the world, speaking of the "tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its center."  (I like the way that sounds, don't you?  Can't you just picture it like a soggy loaf of bread?)  Ivan laments:  "Surely I haven't suffered simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else."  (Talk about metaphor.) 

He then asks his monk-brother:  "Do you understand why this infamy [suffering] must be and is permitted?  Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil.  Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much?"  Rejecting the world that God has created because it is built on a foundation of suffering, Ivan proclaims:  "Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it.  And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest many I am bound to give it back as soon as possible.  And that I am doing.  It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket."

I am no atheist.  But, like Ivan, I too struggle to understand incomprehensible suffering -- in the world, in my circle of friends and acquaintances, and in my very own life.  Like Ivan, I can't help but think that the suffering costs too much -- at least when it sacrifices the innocent on the altar of another's sin.  Or when it hits, lottery-style in a randomness that confounds all understanding.  But, unlike Ivan, I can see the joy too -- a joy that is (despite what he says) sweetened and strengthened by opposition.  Perhaps what Ivan couldn't (or chose not to) believe, is this: 

"Joy and sorrow are inseparable.  Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed."  [Gibran, The Prophet]

That knowledge doesn't excuse the suffering, I suppose. But it at least grants me the perspective to hold on to my entrance ticket.

Evil vs. Super Evil

My 8-year-old loves presenting me with horrible choice scenarios of her own design. What would you choose:

1.  offer one of your children up for adoption, or die?

2.  eat a cat, or hug the stinkiest,slimiest person on the planet?

3.  change a million poopy diapers, or run a thousand miles?

Where does she come up with these things?  Today's choice made me laugh:

Would you rather be evil or super evil?

How to answer?  I suppose I'd rather be just evil.  Perhaps there's a better chance for reform?

Tiger Mom vs. Lamb Mom

Found this and this pretty fascinating, given the struggles I already have with my three headstrong children (8, 6, and 2 1/2).  The 8-year-old, in particular, tends to push me to my limit.  I'm not proud to admit that last night (completely drained by the battle over homework) I actually resorted to telling her "you're never going to be successful in life if you spell tractor 'tracter'."

Who knows what actually works.  To some extent, it gets back to the whole nuture vs. nature thing, don't you think?  Some children will achieve because it's just IN them.  I threaten to let my oldest sink or swim and deal with the consequences, but I don't have the guts to actually follow through on the threat.  How about you?

Wednesday's Word -- Stupor

I've always been taught that if you're trying to make a tough decision and you find yourself in a "stupor of thought," it's probably not the right choice.  We're still trying to decide whether to buy a new house, and so I'm thinking about the word "stupor" today.  When I was young, I always thought the word sounded kind of like "stupid."  Turns out, it kind of does mean that.

Stupor

Stupor means a state of suspended or deadened sensibility.  It is a state of mental "torpor" or "apathy."  It is "stupefaction."  (Now, that's a word.)  Breaking it down, stup- means senseless, and the -or part means to be.  Put it together, and it is "to be senseless."  

One of the definitions of stupid is in fact "in a state of stupor; stupefied."  Broken down, "stupid" is stup- (senseless) + -id (full of).  So, somewhat paradoxically, "stupid" means full of emptiness.  I kind of like that.  

Torpor (love that word too) means a state of suspended physical powers.  It means sluggish inactivity or inertia.  It is dormancy, as in a hibernating animal.  Broken down, torpor means to be stiff or numb.  

Apathy is an absence of emotion, a lack of interest or concern; indifference.

The problem, however, is that I often experience stupefaction and torpor when it comes to making decisions, regardless of what I ultimately (should or do) choose.  I struggled to get myself out of bed this morning, but that might just mean I'm tired and lazy.  Stupefaction.  Facing a difficult choice makes me wish I could escape into hibernation, but that might just mean I have analysis paralysis.  Torpor.  The one word that doesn't fit me (really ever) is "apathy."  I'm pretty much never indifferent or lacking in emotion.  But that might just mean I'm opinionated.  

None of this means I can make a decision, of course.  Stupefy!          

What a Tangled Web

"Oh what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practice to deceive!"

~Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, Canto vi. Stanza 17

"Mom, have you ever told a lie?"  Now how am I supposed to answer that?  I certainly can't lie in response!  As much as I'd like to paint myself as a paragon of virtue in my children's eyes, I have unfortunately been untruthful on more than one occasion.  As you no doubt know if you have young children (or even know any), children often fib with wild abandon.  The trick, I think, is to deal with the tendency while the falsehoods are still painted in broad, obvious strokes.  Do you have any good tips for putting a stop to the tall tales?  What tactics did your parents use?

I recall my own parents teaching us kids the concept of honesty in a way that made a vivid impression for whatever reason.  I don't recall all the details, but I do recall this.  It involved a story of a young boy who kept telling lies, and each lie somehow added a big hairy leg to a big, scary, hairy spider.  I'm not sure how the boy had the ability to add legs to a spider, or why the spider was as big as he was, but he did, and it was.  That big hairy spider has stayed with me these 30 plus years now.

As I've gotten older (and older), I am still fascinated with the concept of truth and deception, but more with the subtleties of what makes a statement or omission true or untrue.  So often meaning is conveyed more by what we don't say than what we do say.

When I was about 12, an elderly couple befriended my family.  They would come to visit and bring all sorts of little treats and delights.  I remember the lovely old woman bringing me a Clinique lipstick in a color light enough that she and I could convince my mom it was more gloss than color so that I could wear it.  One afternoon, she and her husband gave me a collection of short stories that I treasured.  One of the stories I have always remembered was "The Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant (1884).  Do you know that one?  The short story is indeed "short," and well worth a read.  But here's the wikipedia plot summary if you're pressed for time:

"The Necklace" tells the story of Madame Mathilde Loisel and her husband. Mathilde always imagined herself in a high social position with wonderful jewels. However she has nothing and marries a low paid clerk who tries his best to make her happy.

Through lots of begging at work, he is able to get two invitations to the Ministry of the Public Instruction party. Mathilde then refuses to go, for she has nothing to wear. Her husband is upset to see her displeasure and, using money that he was saving to buy a rifle, he lets Mathilde buy a dress that suits her. But Mathilde is still not happy, she wants jewels to wear with it. Since they have no money left, her husband suggests that she borrow something from her friend, Madame Jeanne Forestier. Mathilde picks out the fanciest jewel necklace that she can find. After attending the Ministry of Public Instruction party, Mathilde discovers that she has lost the necklace.

Mathilde and her husband look everywhere but the necklace is not to be found. They take out loans from generous friends and loan sharks to buy a necklace that looks just like the one that was lost. It takes them ten years of hard labor to come up with the 36,000 francs necessary to pay them back. After losing everything, having to work, and forcing her husband to work two jobs, Mathilde sees Madame Forestier walking down the street and tells her that the necklace she returned to her was actually a replacement. Madame Forestier is surprised and tells Mathilde that the original necklace was actually a fake, worth only 500 francs.  

There are so many layers of deception and misunderstanding here.  Mathilde wishing to be someone she was not.  Madame Forestier allowing Mathilde to believe that the necklace is real.  Mathilde hiding her loss of the necklace from Madame Forestier and then laboring and suffering for 10 years to pay the price for its replacement.

There are so many lessons in the story.  Stop trying to appear to be something you are not.  Stop trying to impress other people.  Don't assume that you know a person just based on appearances or reputation.  When you make a mistake, own up to it immediately.

My girls are always begging for good stories.  I think I'll share this one with them tomorrow.  After all, I'd rather have a beautiful lost necklace imprinted in my memory than a big hairy spider.  Wouldn't you?
 

Choose Your Own Adventure

When I was a kid, I went through a stage during which I read every Choose Your Own Adventure Book I could get my hands on.  The first books in the series were published starting in 1979 when I was 7 years old, and they were perfect for my little inquiring mind.

Of course I cheated and would retrace back to the page with the decision point when I didn't like the outcome.  Sometimes I would make really bad choices on purpose just to see what would happen.  It was a book, and I could do that.   And pretty much anything could happen.  You could choose to visit friends in France where you might rent a hot air balloon and hop in.  Then you could choose what direction to fly, and when you met with trouble, you could choose to engage in peaceful negotiations or attack, swim for the shore or wait for rescue.  Depending on where your choices led, you might even end up drifting away into space, where the lack of oxygen leads to your demise.

Anyway, I've always been interested in choice and consequences.  In possibilities and change.  In hope and regret.

Along those lines, here are a handful of photographs of some of the beautiful doors I chanced upon while traveling in the Mediterranean this summer.  I like to think about what might be on the other side of each.

Tunis, Tunisia

Amalfi Coast, Italy

Cinque Terre, Italy

Tunis, Tunisia

Malta

Wrath Repressed, or Wrath Expressed?

Wrath is such a strong word.  Wrath is not mere irritation, but rather "violent anger; vehement exasperation; indignation; rage; fury."  I get upset when my children act like there's no sound coming out of my mouth.  I get exasperated (but not vehemently) when my husband lectures me.  I grumble and murmur when someone at work does something to undermine or disrespect me.

But I don't rage.  No wrath.  No violent anger.  No fury.

I've been thinking recently about anger and how we manifest and resolve it.  I repress.   I let it simmer, and let it pass.  For the most part, this works for me.  Or at least it works better than the alternative.  Although I deal with disputes for a living, the truth is that -- in my personal life -- I don't like contention.  I'd rather internalize the injustice, kill the unkindness with kindness, and believe that it will all come out fairly in some future grand reckoning of life.

Pondering on the topic, the words of William Blake's poem "A Poison Tree" came to mind.  Do you know this one?  What do you think, does repressing and holding onto anger yield poisonous fruit?  Perhaps for both the one growing it and the one partaking of it.  I suppose the key is not to let the tree grow in the first place?  Pull it out before it can take root?

A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

~William Blake, 1794

Sea of Binkies, Sea of Tears

Here is a collection of binkies my nearly-two-year-old used his razor sharp teeth to bite through during our three weeks of travel.  This morning, I gathered all the binkies together and had him test each one.  {suck, suck, suck} "Eww."  And repeat.

The sad thing (in addition to all the wasted dollars in needlessly destroyed binkies) is that he loves his binkies dearly.  Why he would bite through them like he does is beyond me.  It's apparently beyond him as well.  When I ask him why he does it, he responds:  "I don't know why bite, Momma."

Isn't that like life?  We hurt the things we love and sometimes we don't even know why.

Do I Dare to Eat a Peach?

These beloved words from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" have been keeping me company today:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I often referred (lovingly) to my late cat as "Prufrock."  He would meow and meow until I opened the sliding glass door to the back porch.  Then, with the wide world at his paws, he would tentatively stick his head out to sniff outside, with the rest of his body safely in the house.  He would do the hokey-pokey, putting one foot out, then pulling the foot back in.  Sometimes, he would eventually put his whole self out, except keep his tail in so I couldn't close the door.  If I waited long enough, sometimes he would finally step outside into the night air, and I would quickly close the door to keep the bugs out.  Within seconds, that silly cat would be standing against the door, whole furry body pressed with outstretched limbs and open, pink mouth against the glass -- begging to get back in.  

"Okay, Prufrock.  Come back in.  No peaches for you today," I would say.  

My Prufrock is gone, and I lost a kindred spirt.  I'm not losing my hair (and thus have no need to part it "behind").  I'm not even all that old yet (at least according to me).  I don't wear white flannel trousers, and I certainly don't have enough free time to walk on the beach.  I don't generally deliberate over my fruit choices.  

Oh, but I DO deliberate over life's equivalents.  And today, I'm particularly tortured.  I've made up my mind and changed it a dozen times.  

One way or another, I will either eat the peach or cast it aside by mid-week.  And then I will move on.  At least that's what I've decided for tonight.  


May 12 Post Script:  I decided not to eat the peach.  (If you're curious, the "peach" (and the "horse" too) was a job offer.)

Hobson's Choice -- Take That or None

Today, I'm sharing more wisdom from my bulletin board.  

Thomas Hobson owned a livery stable in Cambridge, England in the early 1600s.  Hobson's stable was filled with many horses of different varieties.  But when a customer came in to rent one, Hobson offered the customer the choice of either taking the horse nearest the stable door, or taking none at all.  This was his method for rotating his horses.  

Thus the phrase "Hobson's choice" came to mean the choice of taking either that which is offered, or nothing.  You have freedom of choice, but there's only one choice.

[This incidentally reminds me of a book I read recently (another excellent book provided by my sister Becky) called The Mysterious Benedict Society, by Trenton Lee Stewart.  In the book, several very bright children go on a secret mission, undercover, at the Learning Institute for the Very Enlightened (LIVE).  The only rule at the school is that there are no rules.  In reality, there are all sorts of absurd "non"-rules.  For example, you're allowed to keep the lights on in your rooms as late as you wish until ten o'clock each night.  Freedom to choose one choice.]  

My life is filled with Hobson's choices, or at least it feels that way.  Right now, I'm chewing on a choice presented to me at the stable of life today.  But the longer I chew, the more I fear that I have no choice at all.  I fear that there is only one horse available to me, and I must continue to ride it.  (No, the horse is not a person.)

I'm all for freedom of choice.  It just irks me when the choices are illusory.  I must admit that I offer Hobson (or nearly-Hobson) choices to my children all the time.  "We don't want to take baths!"  "Okay then.  I'll give you a choice.  You can take a bath in the upstairs tub.  Or you can take a bath in the downstairs tub."  (Either way, they are taking baths and have no choice in the matter.)  It's effective with children, and I suppose it's effective with me too.    

Well, this may be cold comfort, but one could argue that choices galore actually make us unhappy.  Here's one good book that takes up the question.      

Wednesday's Word -- Harbinger

Have you ever used the word harbinger in a conversation?  I've tried, but people look at me funny. Despite all efforts at recall, I don't remember how or when I first heard this word.  But I've loved it for a long time.  You pronounce it like this.  So what does it mean?  (I'm sure my brother Peter (who was the Balderdash master way back when) could come up with some cleverly concocted definitions.  Who knows, maybe that's how I first learned the word??)

A harbinger is one that announces or foreshadows the approach of someone or something; forerunner; herald.  It comes from the Middle English herbenger, which was a person sent ahead to arrange lodgings for a monarch or an army.  The word harbinger comes from the Indo-European root *koro, which means war.  

In the 16th Century, the word took on its current meaning of forerunner.  "Forerunner" means
predecessor; ancestor; forebear; precursor; omen, sign, or indication of something to follow; portent.

"Portent" means an indication or omen of something about to happen, especially something momentous; threatening or disquieting significance.

Well, here in Arizona a harbinger has arrived.  It always comes this time of year, arranging lodging for a most unwelcome guest.  It is an omen.  A portent.  An important portent.  Foretelling a coming war.

Behold the palo verde (green stick), streaming ribbons of yellow* blossoms in warning:  The Harbinger of Heat.  At least that's what I call it -- not in everyday conversation, granted, but in conversations with myself :)

[Something like tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree to symbolize a wait for the return of a loved one temporarily unable to come home.  I'll be waiting for the temperate weather to come home . . . .] 

Lightening Your Load {and regretting it}

Have you ever thrown something away, only to find yourself in desperate need of that very item a week later?  That sort of thing seems to happen to me with some frequency.  Of course you had zero need of the thing for the year it was sitting untouched and neglected in your junk drawer or hall closet.  But that's the way it goes.

Have you ever cast aside some aspect of yourself, only to regret it later?  It won't be the next week or the next month, and maybe not even the next year.  It takes longer.  But have you ever taken a hard, long look at yourself and missed the you you used to be?  It happens.

I have travel on the brain, so here's the metaphor.

In Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, he gives an entertaining account of his efforts to hike "the AT" (Appalachian Trail), which spans 14 states (from Georgia to Maine) and 2100 miles.  (I sometimes dream of doing this myself, but then come to, and remember that I have responsibilities . . . .)  His family has recently moved from England to New Hampshire, and he discovers that the Appalachian Trail snakes right through his town.  The idea starts as a crazy whim, but then he actually decides to do it.  He reconnects with Steven Katz, an old high-school friend from Iowa (who provides much comic relief, but uses bad language at times, so be warned).  Katz is ill-suited to the task in every imaginable way.

Bryson and Katz pack all sorts of equipment and provisions for the journey, some of which are useful and important, and some not.  Tents, sleeping pads, nested pots and pans, eating utensils, water purifiers, patching kit, sleeping bags, water bottles, ponchos, matches, pack covers, compasses, stove, gas bottles, head lamps, knives, clothes, etc.  Katz insists on some other items, many of which are hanging off the side of his pack on the first day on the trail:  grubby sneakers, boots, pepperoni sausages, rice, cookies, oatmeal, raisins, M&Ms, Spam, Snickers, sunflower seeds, bricks of cheese, canned bacon, Little Debbies (lots and lots of them), and bologna.

The first day on the trail requires a hike up Springer Mountain in Georgia.  Bryson and Katz are both completely overwhelmed by the difficulty of the task -- especially Katz, who is very much weighed down by all his provisions.  Bryson finally leaves Katz behind.  When Bryson stops late in the day to wait for Katz to catch up, it takes quite some time.  Katz finally appears, with a pack that has been emptied of much of its contents.  In his anger and exhaustion, he threw all sorts of items out, lightening his load in the process.  Some important and some foolish in the first place.  Spam?   Over the edge of the mountain.  Brown sugar, peanuts and cheese?  Gone.  Extra shoes?  Gone.  And so on.

As we all ascend our own personal Springer Mountains, there will be times when we cast aside parts of ourselves to continue the trek.  Some of what we send flying over the edge is good riddance.  Spam.  Goodbye.  How much of what we carry is dead weight -- something we should have never packed in the first place?  Something that must be cast off if we are to progress.

But sometimes, I think we cast off pieces that -- while perhaps not essential -- will be missed at some later point in the journey.  That has certainly been true for me.  How much of what makes up your own individual essence have you flung to the side of your path as you trudged forward toward your goal?  Have you tossed aside talents, interests and priorities only to later wish you hadn't?  Do you ever look around your destination at your fellow travelers, struck by how unlike they are to the you you used to be?  Might have been?  Or maybe only I do that.

Here's a "me" (from an old yearbook) that doesn't remotely resemble the present "me."  At least some days, I think that's a grand shame. {I don't look anything the same, but that's certainly not the part that's the shame.  Who knows why I thought this look was a good one back in the late 80s!}

*In truth, I was actually never a very good artist.  But I did have a great love for the arts of all kinds and was happiest in the midst of it.  Now, I still get my liberal arts kicks in my own way.  For me, there is a certain joy when I can insert a literary allusion in a speech, brief filed with the court or oral argument.  Even if very few of my fellow travelers notice or get it. It makes me happy, and that's enough.

Keeping the First for Another Day

Photo by sschneider101

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.

~Robert Frost

Have you ever noticed that while Frost says that taking the road less traveled by "has made all the difference," he never says whether it was a good or bad difference?  And that when he tells someone how he took the road less traveled by, he will be doing it with a sigh?  In truth, taking either of the two paths would have made "all the difference," because each (presumably) led to a different destination.  

I've spent some time over the years trying to decide whether I've taken the path less or more traveled by.  To a certain extent, it's both.  I took a safe route professionally (which could be considered the path more traveled by), but given the particular circumstances of my life and the roughness of the terrain, my path is indeed less traveled by (at least by travelers that fit my description).  In the end, I'm not sure it matters.  As I said, whatever path any of us chooses can make all the difference if we keep traveling instead of just plopping down on the side of the road.  

What I'm particularly taken with is the idea of keeping the road not taken "for another day."  (Notice that the poem is entitled "The Road Not Taken," rather than "The Road Taken" or even "The Road Less Traveled By.")  Frost doubted that he would ever come back to the divergence point, because "way leads on to way."  But why not?  And why--necessarily--must the two roads continue in completely separate directions?  Isn't it possible that the roads might converge again at some point along the way?  

I--like you and every other person--have stood staring down personal roads as far as I could see, only to choose one and not the other.  The biggest divergence I can identify in my life occurred at the point at which I chose between a path of creativity and a path of practicality.  I chose practicality (for more than the practicality, of course -- nothing is so simple), and it has indeed made all the difference.  I do, however, intend to come back and explore the road I kept for another day.  To some extent, I'm doing it now with this blog.  

Who's to say I can't "travel both and be one traveler"?  Who's to say you can't?  

Cookies, Choices, Control

Tonight, having made the well-intentioned but ill-advised decision to purchase another nine boxes of Girl Scout Cookies, I am thinking about another favorite lesson from Frog and Toad.  Maybe you know this one.  You can find it in Frog and Toad Together by Arnold Lobel.

The Cookies

Toad baked some cookies. "These cookies smell very good," said Toad. He ate one. "And they taste even better," he said. Toad ran to Frog's house. "Frog, Frog," cried Toad, "taste these cookies that I have made." Frog ate one of the cookies. "These are the best cookies I have ever eaten!" said Frog.  Frog and Toad ate many cookies, one after another.

"You know, Toad," said Frog, with his mouth full, "I think we should stop eating. We will soon be sick." "You are right," said Toad. "Let us eat one last cookie, and then we will stop." Frog and Toad ate one last cookie. There were many cookies left in the bowl. "Frog," said Toad, "let us eat one very last cookie, and then we will stop." Frog and Toad ate one very last cookie.

"We must stop eating!" cried Toad as he ate another. "Yes," said Frog, reaching for a cookie, "we need will power." "What is will power?" asked Toad. "Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do," said Frog.  "You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?" asked Toad.  "Right," said Frog.  

Frog put the cookies in a box.  "There," he said.  "Now we will not eat any more cookies."  "But we can open the box," said Toad.  "That is true," said Frog.  Frog tied some string around the box.  "There," he said.  "Now we will not eat any more cookies."  "But we can cut the string and open the box," said Toad.  "That is true," said Frog.

Frog got a ladder.  He put the box up on a high shelf.  "There," said Frog.  "Now we will not eat any more cookies."  "But we can climb the ladder and take the box down from the shelf and cut the string and open the box," said Toad.  "That is true," said Frog.  Frog climbed the ladder and took the box down from the shelf.  He cut the string and opened the box.

Frog took the box outside.  He shouted in a loud voice, "HEY BIRDS, HERE ARE COOKIES!"  Birds came from everywhere.  They picked up all the cookies in their beaks and flew away.  "Now we have no more cookies to eat," said Toad sadly.  "Not even one."

"Yes," said Frog, "but we have lots and lots of will power."  "You may keep it all, Frog," said Toad.  "I am going home now to bake a cake."

* * *

I just love this story -- for the humor, the simplicity and the true insight on human nature.  The question I'm thinking about is this:  Why do both the freedom to choose and the lack of that freedom make us so unhappy?  

Like Frog and Toad--unable to stop eating one last cookie despite all attempts to exercise will power--we commit to make good choices (about everything from food to the more serious choices of life) only to climb the ladder, take down the box and cut the string of the "mistake boxes" we all have on our shelves.  That makes us unhappy.  

Like Toad--who can no longer eat cookies after Frog throws them to the birds--we sometimes have the ability to choose taken from us (whether by another person or by circumstance), and that makes us unhappy too.  And like Toad, when choices are removed, the natural human tendency is to rebel.  No more cookies to eat?  Toad will go home and make a cake.  

The obvious application of the story to my life is to stop eating Girl Scout Cookies.  I would feed them to the birds, but that really wouldn't make me happy.  For now, I've taken the Frog-intermediate-approach and--rather than tying them up with string or putting them on a high shelf--I am putting them in the freezer.  That will at least make it more difficult for me (particularly with my braces) to consume them.  

But on another level, I'm also thinking about the other kinds of "cookies" in my life -- the habits that I'd like to change.  My "To [Not] Do List."  We all have them.  Fallback tendencies that control us when we're not controlling them.  It could be any number of personal gluttonies -- wasting time, losing your temper, procrastination, watching TV, being negative about yourself and others, and on and on.  

Putting the habit on a high shelf, tied with string is at least a place to start!