The Road Not Taken

I am confined to the house today by the standing water on our street and I'm good with that now.

I had to find a comfort for it--I started my day a bit stir crazy, wanting to move, needing to move, trying to move. Staying on the go has allowed me to move past any feelings coming up--outrunning them in a way.

But today. Stillness. And it's good.

I took out an older journal with the intention to write longhand for a change and feeling good about putting thoughts to paper on this day suited for nothing else.

Before I started, I looked back over the pages from the past several months and what I found was liberating.

I found entries dealing with my past relationship, the one I am leaving now and I could almost cry at the sense of desperation and hopelessness inherent in my words.

One entry in particular struck me and is the inspiration for this. I was exploring the road not taken and listed several instances where this might be worth writing about--having not pursued a love interest with "her" made the list.

When I think of how much time I have given to this stagnant relationship, I am saddened. I know, I know, all things happen for a reason and I believe this so I allow comfort for that alone.

Yet I can't help thinking, how long would I have festered here? Why now, did I find my voice? What will come?

My only reason for "festering", for staying put was the fear of financially supporting the children on my own. And in the wake of my admission to her, my only vulnerability is still one of economics. My heart is not broken, my stance is not shaky, my mind is clear and my gaze is set beyond this. That's how you know you've stayed too long.

I have to take a slight deviation from this current course of writing to speak to something that has just come up. This is how much she doesn't get me and a testament to how she never has--I'm writing right now and she has come to stand in front of me several times, trying to talk, trying to get my attention--really?

What do you think I'm doing here? As a writer, I must put words down--whether I write, whether I type, the words must make their exit from me and take their form. It is an act of necessity and an act of passion--I am instinctively drawn to my writing. I must tell a story--I know no other way of processing the world I live in, the space I occupy. The act itself is merely a reflex for me.

And, really? You stand before me and play with that--have we met?

Confirmation.

I get these tidbits daily anymore--at times, moment to moment.

The road not taken has just been taken and the traveler anticipates the journey.