I remember when I was a child, I’m not sure how old anymore. It must have been somewhere between grades 2 and 6, between 8 and 11 years of age. I used to love reading those “choose your own adventure” novels.
Remember those?
You would start reading the novel just like any other book; at the beginning. You would read it until a certain point and then you’d have to choose the next step. You were given two or three options, usually, and each option changed the direction of the book completely. In a sense, you were writing that book as you went along. You were the author of that story.
Life is like that too; just a series of quick pauses and a few options.
I wish someone had explained that to us as kids. To me. How truly symbolic a “Choose your own Adventure” novel is of a human life. A personal journey. Now THAT would have been a lesson to learn all those years ago.
Perhaps if we had been taught that growing up, we would find ourselves less attached to outcomes and more open to possibilities.
Every novel would start at the beginning, the way everything starts. You couldn’t choose when, where, who, etc, you just had to make choices based on what you were given. The same way we don’t get to choose when we are born, where we live, who our parents are and what we are given, or not given.
You would rush to your first set of options. You knew in advance that you would be given some, but there was no way of knowing what they would be.
Would they lead to travel in faraway lands? Would they help you find love? Friendships? Hidden treasure? Success? You were unsure, but the story was full of possibilities.
Your first set of options were always so exciting.
Some seemed terrifying. Almost too adventurous for your first real choice. You had to test the waters. Get your feet wet before you committed to something so unfamiliar. Some seemed to lead to a sadness that was equally terrifying. Some were happy. Some were strange. It didn’t matter what you chose though, you knew that it was just the first of many.
By the time your next set of options came, you were far more committed to the journey. You started to figure out who the main character was. Maybe you even started to enjoy where that journey was taking you.
The next options took you closer to the end. You knew you had less time for the outcome that you wanted and you started to think more strategically about the choices you were making.
At this point, you may have learned that the most terrifying things led to the most wonderful treasures. Or that what seemed like the happiest paths led to a loss you weren’t prepared for. Sometimes treasures were lost as quickly as they were found.
The only certainty you had was that you had to continue making choices to get to the end. It was the only way. You had started a journey and you had to see it through.
What I learned from reading those “Choose your own adventure” novels is that you didn’t have to like the ending. That it was just a story. A journey. If you didn’t like the ending you chose, you could go back to the turning point and choose again. You could go back as many turning points as you needed to and try a new path.
Sometimes in life, we get so stuck on an ending we don’t like, we forget that we are the authors of this story. That at any moment, we can try again. Pick another path. Rewrite the ending.
The difference between life and a novel is that life only gives you one true ending; death. In the meantime, you get to “choose your own adventure.” The same way you did as a child, so many years ago.
And miles to go before I sleep 