...and miles to go before I sleep.

As one wanders, Frost-like, through the woods, there are inevitably signs of passage from those that have gone before.  D+S carved into a tree, perhaps, or a well-worn path around a boulder leading to an easily-forded section of a stream.  Other places, other meadows, the signs and markings may simply not be found, and one is left with untrammeled wildflowers, a choice of direction and approach... and no warning signs if the meadow is secretly high-mountain swamp and likely to result in rangers finding only your hat sitting on the top of what appears to be solid ground.


As in marriage, so as in life.  And birthdays, I suppose.  I find paths and patterns in my meanderings that I know were cut with care by my mom and dad.  I find other areas where the path simply fades out, and I'm left to cut my own trail into the undergrowth and hope that I'm still going the same direction I was when I set out.  Turns out moss actually grows on every side of most trees that I've seen, leaving me no conclusion when I find myself at a loss to where I am ...other than that I've ended up at the South pole.
The clear and simple paths, the ones that avoid cactus, poison ivy, sudden drop-offs, and potential unpleasant surprises of that ilk don't cause much consternation, or wonder, for that matter.  Other travelers, having been through that, or having the foresight to avoid it, have embedded the route into the earth, leading you safely past.  It's the meadows, however, where the footprints become sparse, then invisible, that cause me to pause and reflect.
If the path has stopped, why?  Is this a bad idea?  Here Be Bog Womblers signs were eaten, along with the previous souls that came this way?  Is it safe, and thus you can pick your own bed of flowers to lie in for cloud-watching and star-gazing, and peacefully while the afternoon away?

Or, is this simply a place and a time where it's more important that I be left to discover what needs to be found on my own?  No small and hidden wildflower, when pointed out by another, has the same magical impact of seeing it yourself.  No warning of 'that may sting for several days' can convey the reality of having suffered through the reaction oneself.

I, Ryan, having been blessed with goodly parents, a resoundingly adept and beautiful wife and friends that matter, am happy.  I'm grateful for trail guides, for purple mountains' majesty, and for someone to show me the vistas I missed while I was on my hands and knees, looking for flowers amidst the ferns.  I'm pleasantly surprised to find that my Life, the Universe and Everything year feels not much different than my twenty-fifth, other than the kids needing far fewer diaper changes and more car keys.  I'm also kinda happy that the number of my parents' anniversaries is still greater than the number of years I've been roaming this planet, no matter what people yell at me when I'm on my bike.

Life is sweet.