Paths of Stone, Hearts of Gold

Thank God for ice cream, cases of caffeine free diet coke, and wonderful friends who know exactly when you need them.

Last night, I had a bit of a setback, a face to face brush with a painful reminder of what are still fresh and raw feelings of hurt and betrayal. What can you do? Setbacks are as much a part of life as breathing, and this one literally took my breath away. Luckily, at least for me, loyal and true friends are as much a part of life as setbacks, and a spontaneous delivery of diet cokes, ice cream, and, most importantly, a big hug, is never more than a speed dial away.

My friend's visit did much more for me than the anxiety pill I popped as soon as I could locate the pill bottle, much more than thoughts of spite and revenge ever could. Within minutes, my pulse slowed, my blood ceased to boil, and my skin stopped crawling. The four of us (my friend and I, and Ben and Jerry) didn't talk much, but it didn't take long for me to remember how full my life is of people who are loyal and true, folks who will never promise not to hurt me and do just that, who will never forsake me no matter how much of a pain in the ass I can be. I like to think I would return the favor for them, should the need ever arise.

When I was growing up, my father always cautioned me against taking the path of least resistance. I have certainly taken his advice to heart, choosing for myself a path filled with twists and ruts and felled trees, and the occasional stone that gets kicked up in my face. The journey is arduous, and it is tempting, sometimes, to retrace my steps and find a more pleasant and freshly paved road. But I've laced up the shitkickers and I stay the course, no matter how much it hurts. It's not a pretty journey, but I have to believe that, despite the setbacks, there's something good waiting for me at the other end.

My path will be strewn with lots of empty ice cream containers, lots of empty soda cans. And it will be peppered with lots of warm hugs from true friends and alive with the distant echo of my father's voice, urging me on.