It was fairly simple for Robert Frost in 1916.The poet only looked back and mused about “the road not taken.” One road. Just one? I think back on a myriad of roads and paths, a maze of choices, one leading to another fork, each branching until it is difficult to remember the way originally taken. With decisive moments in life, I found none of the roads appear to be well traveled or even IF there were any roads at all. Instead, a path had to be hacked through brambles, coursed over rocky terrain, and forded across dangerous rapids. Surviving and relishing the pathways taken became their own rewards and memories.
