Into the Wood

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; 5

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, 10

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. 15

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.

Mr. Frost is wrong. There is no doubt that we come back, time and time again, to the same crossroad. Perhaps not for years, perhaps tomorrow, but we come back. The idea that we solve the great question of our lives with one decision, however thoughtful and premeditated, is a dreamer's answer to the complexity of our lives. Often, I believe, we don't even choose the path, but rather we're swept along the trail like a raft on rapids, trying to avoid the rocks and shoals, yet without success even in this: we always smack into something, and whether we survive or not depends on... what?

Faith? Fortitude? Upper body strength?

I have an image of a man. He is resolved, sure and implacable. Steadfast and true. He posseses beauty and intellect in abundance. He takes the less travelled path and never returns to the question he asked himself that day in the wood. He is the man we all wish to be: the hero without regret. The renaissance gentleman who will live his life over again without change, knowing with surety the rationale of every pace his boots have made upon the fallen autumn leaves.

He is not I.