I did that dinner thing with my friends from college last week. I had been romanticizing about how it would be to enjoy a treat night of reminiscing. It turned out to be a reminder of the great distances we have travelled since we studied together in Fanjeaux Hall and gossiped over lunch in Caleruega.
One of us had lost a spouse, one recently lost a marriage, and the topic of the night was not light and carefree as I thought it would be. We talked instead about families in crisis and, although there wasn't much of the optimism and innocense of those early days when the chapters of our lives had not yet been written, that was okay, too.
I have a couple of nomadic girlfriends whom I adore. They boldly move wherever the wind takes them, across town or across the country. Both are single professionals who currently reside in Seattle and Reno. Reno is do-able on a weekend, so I drove on up to hang out, gamble away the $40 in my pocket, eat lunch and laugh. It sure felt like she was circling around looking for somewhere to land. I envy the wanderlust spirit of change the way they do, but appreciate the roots that hold me fast.
The best part about these visits was re-discovering that we are no longer unmolded clay. We have cleared our lives of debris to live it richly and are rougher, softer, and sadder by its imprint. Spreading our wings and focusing on the experience is as fun as seeing the result. Now we know all of it matters.
Would we change any step of the journey if we could? Probably. I don't know anyone who wouldn't want to occasionally revisit a decision after learning how hard living with it would be. But doing that would run the risk of missing out on all the good and wonderful things it has brought. We are the lives we have lived, warts and all. To change any part of it would change us entirely.
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