Younger, I craved a road map for my life, some clear directions to tell me how to live with the right balance of verve and security. I wanted failproof instructions to guarantee my getting where I wanted to go. A consumer society was anxious to instruct me on success, image, and status, but just adding years to my life helped me see through that false though tempting advice. Better directions came from my faith community, though despite useful guidelines, I never got my coveted road map.
Just as well. The place I thought I wanted to be would never have satisfied me. Life brought unexpected and undesirable events—single parenting, dementia caregiving, early widowhood. I have learned more than a map could ever have taught me about the preciousness and fragility of life.
We are all left with the responsibility—better, the opportunity—to find our own way and to co-create our own lives. Maybe the best we can do is to find trustworthy traveling companions now and again to share the journey.
Antonio Machado, the nineteenth century Spanish poet, speaks beautifully to this.
XXIX
Traveler, there is no path.
The path is made by walking.
Traveler, the path is your tracks
And nothing more.
Traveler, there is no path
The path is made by walking.
By walking you make a path
And turning, you look back
At a way you will never tread again.
Traveler, there is no road
Only wakes in the sea.
Antonio Machado, There Is No Road
translated by Mary Berg and Dennis Maloney
Buffalo, NY: White Pine Press, 2003