"And sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler...."

Part 1:

If I had to pick one poem that has popped into my mind more than any other, it would be Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken.”

It comes to me at every crossroad, big or small.  It comes to me every time I have a dilemma.  And--as my astrologically knowledgeable friends have often informed me--being a Libra means that I spend more time than the other signs weighing all the pros and cons of everything.

Yesterday, driving away from Salem, I knew that I had to choose: to continue south in Highway 5 and proceed toward Texas, or to take another day to see the Oregon coast. Four out of the five people I asked said I must go to the Oregon coast, that it’s very different from the California coast, that you can see whales and lighthouses and walk on beautiful boardwalks.  All day I wondered if I’d made the right decision not to go there.

I stopped in Eugene, still wondering if I should backtrack and see the coast after all.  I had some great Thai soup in downtown Eugene, then I went into an African shop and bought a bowl made in South Africa.  It’s made out of telephone wires and is just too beautiful not to buy.  (I know--I just said two days ago I wasn’t particularly acquisitive, but when I see something that makes my heart sing the wizard song again, I know I have to take it home with me to remind me of the special day on which I found it.)

In the poem, the speaker stands at his crossroad, too, looking down one as far as he can see, wishing he could travel both and be one person.  You’ll remember that he “saved the first for another day.”  You’ll remember, too, that after he thought about it “the passing there had worn [both roads] about the same.”  So he chose.  Both roads would have been fine roads probably, but he knew that when he grew old and looked back, he’d say that the one he chose had “made all the difference.”

I’d set my compass toward Texas; I proceeded here to Grant’s crossing, close now to the California border.

Some decisions feel instantly right, others not so much.  When I decided to save Vancouver and the Orcas Islands for another day, I didn’t look back.  But yesterday’s choice was murkier.

Still, it was a good day. When I stopped to fill up my tank, I didn’t have to get out of the car; friendly young men do it for you in Oregon.  When I bought my bowl and my room for the night, I didn’t have to pay tax.

Oregonians drive slowly on the highway, a pace that seems downright pokey to this Texas driver, but in a way, it feels quite relaxing to put the cruise control on 60 and drive slowly enough to take in the views.  I saw a sign in a shop window: “What’s your hurry?” and I thought maybe that should be the state motto.

Part 2:

As I was slowly wending my way through the valley, heading for Ashland--as the clerk at the African store advised--I got a phone call from Mary Locke, my oldest San Antonio friend (not in age but in years of friendship: 40)

Just before our call dropped, Mary Locke told me that she and Tom had just run into my
Ex (and only) husband.  They had a short and cordial conversation.

I get hints from our children that their parents are often doing similar things--traveling west, for example, at the same time; reading some of the same books; quoting from the same stories on NPR.

That might lead anyone to believe that we have a lot in common, my Ex and me.   But trust me (I have my hand on a stack of road maps when I tell you this), there is no way in this universe that I’d consider getting back together with him--though I just had a dream that I did.

In the dream, he was handsome (about 45 in the dream, while in reality he is nearly 72).  In the dream, I was my free self, happy to report on all the things that have happened to me in the years since we went our separate ways.  In the dream, I even told him about the men in my life since we parted many years ago and listened with equanimity when he told me about the "sweet" relationship he's had with the woman who used to be my friend.

In the dream--and this is the main feature that let me know I was dreaming--we were having a fun conversation like two grownups, laughing, nobody mad.  He was listening intently to me talk--another clear indicator that we were in dream territory--and we were both laughing a lot.

In the dream, we danced and took a walk. He was warm and friendly, I was sassy and strong, even kind of funny.

Word got out.  Mary Locke and Tom (in the dream)  painted words on our car with white shoe polish, the way people do for brides and grooms, the way people did, actually, when he and I married, me 18, him 25.  It was assumed  that we were getting back together; he called the other girlfriend and told her I “wanted him back.”

The phone on which he was calling her was on speaker, and I said calmly into the speaker to her: “I can’t stand you.  Not because you have him, but because you were my friend and you deceived me.”

Don’t try to follow the logic: that I would dance with my Ex and still hold a  grudge against his girlfriend.  Regular logic doesn't apply in dreamland.

According to Jungian dream interpretation, every person in our dreams is part of ourselves.  Was I dancing with a part of myself that he represents?  Was I making peace with the past?

In the years since our divorce, I’ve often thought: I wish we’d divorced way sooner.  Many of our 28 years together were exactly the opposite of what I’d choose to re-live.

But (I notice I so often say “on the other hand”)--there is an other hand in every story. Without traveling that road (the one that started before I knew better) , I wouldn’t have my two  kids and grandchildren, worthy of whatever else happened on that bumpy road.

We were, my Ex and I, just about to ride off into the dream sunset, happy words painted on the car, when I said, “Wait, I didn’t mean I wanted to get married! I just wanted to dance.”

In dreams, I sometimes run into my Ex.  Right after we divorced, I remember telling my therapist (in a weepy bout of self-pity), “I’ll never love another man like I loved him”--to which she responded, “Praise Jesus!”

But marriage cuts deep groves in the psyche.  A good marriage or not, 28 years is a long time to live with another human being. In the dream, we were not the people we were when we were married; we were better, kinder, more relaxed than we ever were in real life.

One of the many gifts of this trip--taking a month-long drive-about to celebrate turning 65--is the awareness that came to me when I woke up from the dream.  Now, I can dance with the past.  And I can hold a multi-colored bowl made in South Africa as a reminder of the day I got that.