The Road is Open

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

-Walt Whitman, "Song of the Open Road", Leaves of Grass (1855)

I first mentioned the little road that leads to my house simply because it was beautiful. That little road used to look like this: quiet, serene, natural. It was lovely. Like my life used to be.

What? I can be tranquil.

Well, I can.

Years ago, my life was filled with quiet. With reading; complete Saturdays on the couch with a book. And yoga; all kinds of yoga. And music; I spent hours browsing through Waterloo Records. Then I'd buy some music, then I'd spend hours at home listening to it.

And then there was the quiet. Remember quiet?

Then about nine months ago, they closed my road, tore it in half, and started the process of improving it. I mentioned that here too because I wasn’t very happy about it. I complained about the construction and its progress, or lack thereof. This was something I noticed daily. It impacted my commute, my daily routine, my mood, my life.

And now, in the time it takes to have a baby, a new road is born. A lot has happened since they started construction. When they closed my road, I was already knee-deep in a frazzled state of claustrophobia. I couldn't breathe. My best friend had been gone from Austin nigh on a year and I felt lost and lonely, raw and overexposed. I was only thirty-five years old, but my perception of both time and obligation was skewed. As a naive new parent, I believed in the overwhelming importance of every move I made. Don't get me wrong, I know what I do is important, but I've gained a little wisdom. I'm older and typical of parents who've had a second child, I've relaxed a little. I get it now that even if I don't buy the organic broccoli, even if the baby didn't get daily tummy-time, even if it takes one more Dora the Explorer video to get me through the afternoon, they will be OK. They'll be better than OK. Everything is going to be OK.

If babies are good for anything, it's creating a time warp that knocks you for a delusional loop and sends you into a merciless tailspin of obsession over the paradox of your simultaneous importance and insignificance, over your minuscule part in the universe, your inevitable descent into old age, anonymity, mediocrity, death.

Or maybe that was just me.

And in the middle of my frenzy, every day, I was reminded that I couldn’t go the way I wanted to go. For weeks, out of habit, I would begin to turn right only to be halted by a Road Closed sign.

Nope, can’t go that way any more.

And there was nothing I could do about it. I watched days turn into months with no visible progress on my road, no workmen even. It seemed like nothing was happening.

But magically, now, with no warning, the road is open again. It’s open. Glorious freedom. I can turn right. I can get to where I'm going, faster, more efficiently, on a clean new road.

Nine months later, from where I stand now (which is a much cleaner, clearer place) I'm so happy simply to be able to get to where I'm going. No more detour. Straight shot. And I don't hate it so much as I might have imagined. Sure, it's not as quaint, not as pretty. There are still remnants of the workmen and the construction process: orange netting and scars where the old road meets the new.

But it works. It's functional. Practical. People need that. And whatever the fantasy I had, it's not gone. The same people ride this road. The same little old men in pick-up trucks, even if I don't see them as often. The same mothers pushing strollers, the same fathers pulling wagons, the same men jogging, the same women walking their dogs. And I bet they're all as happy as I am that the road is open.

I can breathe again. Thank God the road is open.