Wrong Way

Rising early, I open the blinds to watch the morning mist's pre-dawn embrace of trees and lawn and Montevallo's aged columns. "Wrong Way," shouts a traffic sign outside my window. It is a familiar refrain.

Would I have chosen differently, long years ago, had I seen the "Wrong Way" signs along the path? Would I be a richer woman now, had I turned and rushed headlong into the mainstream?

I tried it once, full throttle down the highway, screaming around the corners, blazing past slower travelers. The rush was terrific. But the wind whipped my face 'til my eyes teared, so I never saw clearly. And the roar of the motor filled my bones with such sound that my ears couldn't hear my own voice crying out.

When I lurched off the highway—there are no "exit only" lanes on the fast-track—other travelers pronounced me mad.

"Wrong way!" they yelled. "You'll never make it!"

There was no path that I could see, just grass and trees and rocks. I shuddered at the vastness of the silence. Uncertain of the destination, I learned to delight in the journey.

Decades down my wrong-way path, I savor the writer's life. The hours are long, and the work is lonely. (The office Christmas party was a dud.) No matter. Here, heart and head live in sweet congruence.

Today I'll meet with other travelers on the path. Hello. Godspeed. Wrong way, and welcome to it.

-end-