Seven years ago I was presented with a road ahead that surprised me. It surprised me because I hadn’t reached a crossroads, I wasn’t standing bewildered, shaking my head with a choice between a left or a right turn. I was presented with a road that was familiar, but one that I thought had been closed off.
It was a pleasant surprise, I won’t lie. One that scared me and thrilled me all at once.
I had skipped along it briefly, you see. And it had ended in an earthquake that had shaken all of my foundations, the cracks in the tarmac were nearly healed but you could see the faint outline of scars that ran across my heart in the shape of a big, fat X. A No Entry sign had been rudely erected across the entrance to that road, five years before, and the entrance was boarded up. Not my choice. But the skipping came to a brutal end. It was for the best, because my feet really hurt, I had danced, and skipped, and run for miles along a stretch of road that opened up a whole new world but, at the same time, had been fraught with inexplicable danger.
So you can imagine my surprise when the road opened up before me again in March 2015. It was a year of great change in my life. Job changes, health issues that caused me to question and acknowledge the swift passing of years, relationship matters that had never quite been resolved.
And there was the road, the entrance opened up as suddenly as it had closed up, yes it was obscured a little bit by some overgrown detritus, some unresolved thorns that still scratched at my arms as I passed through the entrance, taking my first few faltering steps on a journey I had travelled less and less. It was now just a reflection in my rear view mirror, something I glanced over my shoulder at once in a while, wincing at the heat and light of the sun sinking down behind me as it dragged its fingers down the sky. I remember trying to hold on back then, like the sun was now, but eventually the darkness always wins through and overwhelms the light.
I had never got over losing my way, losing that path, veering off the road, losing all direction. But now, here it was again, presenting itself as a new journey and I walked along regardless of all that, still wearing the cloak of the shame of mistakes I made, still carrying the empty load of unused concrete blocks that never built the dream house that was promised. I took falteringly familiar baby steps at first.
I had always imagined the moment that the road might open up again. I always thought that the decision would be more difficult, the choice more complicated, the deliberation more complete and more sustainable.
But no.
It wasn’t a matter of choice. Not really. Because aren’t some things already set in stone? Aren’t some things out of our grasp? Already decided by fate or serendipity?
I began my long, seven year walk, back down memory lane, smelling all the familiar flowers (the lavender fields, the sunflowers), crossing all the beautiful bridges rather than burning them (St Paul’s at night) and swimming in the romance of boats under warm skies on foreign shores, listening to the haunting sound of the call to prayer.
The first four years of the journey was delectable, filled with all the familiar things you expect to encounter as you move forwards. Walking backwards was never my thing. I always had my sights set on the road less travelled and I went boldly into the distance, ignoring the warning signs that sometimes jumped out at me, brushing away the familiar cobwebs that strayed across the distance travelled – which drew longer and longer and stretched out further beyond me than I could reach.
I thought the road less travelled would be full of adventure but, the further I walked, the less I experienced. The road became a narrow alley, vaguely reminiscent of the same road that everyone chose. I wondered if The End would ever be in sight.
I started to get breathless, and sometimes when you can’t see an end in sight, when the road starts to get long and winding, I felt myself looking back over my shoulder, and I began to compare the past with the present, weighing up the similarities, and seeing them sliding into my future. All the promises that the road had opened up again seemed to be getting further away – like in a horror film, when the corridor stretches out before you and you’re just getting smaller and smaller, and the perspective becomes bigger than you are.
You know when your main topic of conversation is the weather rather than enjoying the walk in the rain, kicking through the leaves, watching the sun set & rise, you know your journey is reaching its conclusion.
It was discombobulating because I thought choosing this road would open up a whole new world of possibilities, experiences, wonder and escape … but as I strolled I realised my world had actually shrunk and everything I thought might set me free was actually just boxing me up and I was only let out occasionally for nourishment.
I had time to consider as I walked, my confidence starting to shake again, like when the earthquake started to tremor last time. The road started to crack, and I had to dodge mounds of rubble, lies, broken promises, broken sentences, broken hearts, words of love that had been conceived years ago that were still lying in the womb, ready to be born so that they could live, so that they could be given breath, but I knew they would be stillborn. I knew the road was going nowhere. This conception was already 20 years in the making. Life and time were running out.
I knew this when the road suddenly became a trudge on the treadmill. One day I looked down and I could see my feet moving, but I wasn’t putting in any distance. The treadmill was running, it was set on an incline, and it was getting harder and harder to plod my way up a mountain and I could see only a series of false peaks ahead. When you think you have reached the summit, you know that there’s more to do, and you know you might never get there because the hope you’re offered is the same old hope. I knew at some point that I would stop walking, when I really couldn’t take any more steps forward, and when you’re on a treadmill, you inevitably start to go backwards if you physically can’t put one foot in front of the other.
The road had disappeared ahead. Not forcibly removed this time. Not a roadblock like last time. This time, it had disappeared in a hazy sunrise over yonder somewhere, shrouded in fog, wrapped in frost to preserve it as it was, to contain the growth, and that meant only one thing. It meant that there would be no distractions along the way, no other signs of life, no hope, no seasons to tiptoe through, no celebrations or milestones to reach. And then you realise the road has led to a cul de sac and you’re destined to look out of the same window forever at the same houses across the street.
Just the same steps on the treadmill and me looking down at my feet as I tried and tried to put one foot in front of the other without actually ever going anywhere.
Seven years is a long time to walk endlessly with no end in sight. Whilst it was exhilarating, the thought of something new on the horizon, it was also getting to be really tiresome. The past two years, in particular, had been paved with a faltering degree of uncertainty with hastily mixed cement being poured into the cavities of hope as soon as they sprung up. There had been real opportunities to fill the potholes, gaping chasms that were screaming to be fixed properly with some good quality tarmac. But actually they were filled with more lies and faux reassurance with a view to plastering over the cracks to keep the journey roadworthy for another couple of years.
Really while I was waiting for the concrete to set I began wearing it as an overcoat and I realised I was no longer on the long and winding road but on the treadmill of dread.
That’s pretty heavy stuff.
And it’s such a shame, because the road could have led somewhere, I’m sure. It was going to get rocky, it did get rocky, but the blisters and the bunions would have been worth it.
How does it take seven years to realise you’re on the road to nowhere?
That’s why the road less travelled is so interesting but at the same time so unforgiving.
But, they do say that it’s not the distance travelled that’s important, it’s the journey. So, after these interesting, heartbreaking, often ludicrous, and sometimes sensational, seven years, I’m going to turn the treadmill off and I’m going to allow my feet to slow down until they stop walking in that particular direction. That will take time, I know. Sometimes you just get used to going forwards without thinking, and you just get into the habit of keep walking. But you also stop enjoying the view. I never want to do that.
So, I’m going to look back at the wasteland behind me, and I’m going to search briefly for some meaning, file the memories under history, and I’m going to escape from the long and winding road less travelled and replace it with a map of the world.
“Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.” Jack Kerouac (On the Road).
Mags Winthrop Blog 