This is the path that leads from my house to the street.
It is a path I was tempted to take yesterday. A path away from my house, I mean. Yesterday was, shall we say, a rough one. I spent the day doing multiple loads of laundry, cleaning up various assorted bodily fluids extruded by various assorted small people, mopping up other spills and crumbs and messes, watching the scale remind me that the last 5 pounds I lost are gradually sneaking back to haunt me, making beds, scrubbing the carpet, and attempting and failing miserably at a baking project. I was crabby with my kids. I was crabby with my husband. I was crabby with myself. I desperately needed an escape. I could practically hear that path calling my name.
In fact, as my husband pulled into the driveway after work, I was already halfway down that path to my car, coat on and keys in hand, fleeing to the safe haven of the theater where I was sure that no-one would tug on my pantleg or screech my name from the next room or pee on the floor. (Or at least, if they did, I could happily ignore it.)
It was heaven. For almost 4 hours, I sat in the dark theater, transported to a different time and place, where none of the problems on the stage were my responsibility (well, since I was there as the costumer, if someone ripped their pants I was technically responsible, but that was unlikely enough that it didn’t disturb my serenity). By the time the evening was over, I was refreshed and rejuvenated and ready to come home and face my beloved demons once again.
Fortunately, the path from my house is also the path to my house. That is the nature of a path, after all: it goes both ways. It provides not only an escape but also a return passage. No matter where you leave, if you turn around, the path will lead you back. When you’re ready, the path home is right there, waiting.