If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads.
― Anatole France

For weeks I’d worked on a short story that I finally–with some reluctance–submitted to an online journal. A day later (a miraculously fast response from any journal, online or otherwise), I received my rejection letter. But let me back up a bit. I’d physically worked on the story for weeks; that is, I put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard. It had been birthed and percolating, however, for two years. So technically, this story was years in the making.

That I received a rejection letter was no surprise. I’d never submitted fiction for publication, though I often thought about it late at night when sleep eluded me. Writers expect rejection. It comes with the territory of creating something you float out into the sea of public approval. What surprised me was the quick, but sure, response that washed over me as I read the words of rejection. That’s o.k. It was a good ride while it lasted. Actually, it was a great ride, for hours would go by as I wordsmithed and pondered the next paragraph. Hours that retirement has afforded me during which I could lose myself in the writing process.

American psychologist Carl Rogers writes that [t]he good life is a process, not a state of being. It is a direction not a destination. The older I get, the more I like the idea that the good life is a process, a direction towards which we live and move and have our being. Like many things, writing is a process that urges one in a direction, often with no particular destination in mind. American poet Robert Frost understood this well, for he insisted [n]o surpise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. I also like the idea that in simply beginning and pointing myself in some direction, I’m in the good company of the likes of Robert Frost.

For years, my grandchildren and I have made elaborate plans for holiday gatherings. To this end, we’ve become Dollar Store junkies, oohing and aahing over the current season’s wares. Should we get the 4th of July banner AND the streamers? What about those headbands with glittery stars and stripes? And we have to have both dinner and dessert plates that match the red, white, and blue napkins and table ware. Days before the event, we can visualize it. It will be glorious–and unabashedly overdone. As you can imagine, the results could best be described as lovingly tacky. But no matter. It wasn’t the actual product but the process that gave us so much joy. As Gracyn and Griffin grow older (and their holiday tastes grow more refined–and expensive), we’ll undoubtedly make fewer trips to the Dollar Store. But I hope they’ll remember, as I remember, the unadulterated joy of the process, the planning and imagining and shopping.

In his autobiographical travel book, Blue Highways, William Least Heat Moon contends that [t]he nature of things is resistance to change, while the nature of process is resistance to stasis. This is another remarkable thing about process: its resistance to stasis. If you’re in process, you’re moving. And through movement, change is not only possible but probable. When I consider the process of parenting, I can both smile and grimace at my own wild ride. One thing is certain: you can’t stand still, for each day marches forward and lays its spoils at your feet. An hour after I’ve shared sweet moments reading Curious George Flies a Kite, my daughter is screaming from her bed (having frightened both her sisters) that the plant in her room looks like a giant alligator, and she’s too afraid to sleep. Just when I thought I had this parenting thing down, that parents who complained about their children’s bedtimes were deluded–and cleary ineffective–I’ve been duly humbled. And the occasions during which I would be humbled stretched out endlessly before me, ultimately provoking more significant change than I could’ve ever imagined. The process of change through humility continues as I parent adult children. This, as Least Heat Moon contends, is the nature of process. We may resist change, but it can rock our boats in magnificent ways.

I never failed once. It just happened to be a 2000-step process. These are the words of American inventor Thomas Edison. We really don’t like failure, and more times than not, we rationalize it away, ignore it and bury it. In schools today, we pull out all the stops to prevent anyone from failing; we go to elaborate lengths to graduate and promote all (or nearly all). Failure is not an option, as teachers are repeatedly warned, and students are repeatedly assured. It’s all about the product, the final state of being as a matriculated individual. A 2000-step process? Well, that would just be silly and unnecessarily cruel. Still, these words should give us serious pause. When our brightest minds acknowledge failure is not the end but a important part of an even more important process, we should take note. The processes through which most valuable discoveries are made are often long, arduous, and without clear ends in sight. They make take 2,000 steps or 2 million. Failure is simply a gateway to the next discovery if the process is to continue.

Sitting in my cabin the other day, I was watching the birds in the wild honeysuckle bush near the edge of the timber when, without warning or real consideration, I found myself thinking: What if no one ever read a word I wrote? What if I got up everyday to face an empty sheet of paper or blank computer screen? What if I really never finished anything, if the process just continued until I took my last breath? The answer came in on the breeze as the fragrance of honeysuckle wafted through the window: No matter. The path is beautiful, and I really don’t need to know where it leads.