Have you ever wondered what things would have been like if, for example, you had gone to a different school or married a different person; how things might have been if you had grown up in another town, or country, had taken a job other than the one you did take, the one you’re doing now?
There is a haunting line in the poem “Maud Muller” by the American poet John Greenleaf Whitter (1807-1892). You may be familiar with it:
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
The poem tells the story of Maud Muller, a simple country girl, and a wealthy judge who, driving by in his carriage, sees Maud working in a field. He stops, and the two talk. The poem reflects on the missed chances and unexplored possibilities that life sometimes presents us with. It emphasizes the regret and the sadness that arises from what could have been but never was.
Whenever I hear Whitter’s line, I am reminded of a poem by another New England poet, my favorite American poet, Robert Frost (1874-1963). The poem is “The Road Not Taken.” Some readers of Frost’s poem have understood it to advocate a kind of rugged individuality, a not following the crowd mentality. I prefer to think of it as a deep reflection on the consequences of the choices we make in life. The last stanza reads:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Frost, Robert. Frost: Poems (Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets Series) (pp. 145-146). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.
Perhaps those who concentrate on individuality focus on the line “I took the one less traveled by,”; and those who stress the consequences of our life choices find it in the line “And that has made all the difference.”
In both Whitter’s and Frost’s poems, there’s a longing for the road not taken, a life not lived, and a meditation on what might have been. They both express a trace of regret about the untried paths and the options that were not pursued.
I want to briefly examine a third poem, “Invictus” by William Earnest Henley (1849-1903). In particular, I want to draw attention to the poem’s closing lines:
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Roetzheim, William. The Giant Book of Poetry eBook (p. 284). Level 4 Press, Inc. Kindle Edition.
“Invictus” is a popular and widely quoted poem. Timothy McVeigh, executed for the Oklahoma City bombing on April 19, 1995, recited the above lines as his last words before his execution on June 11, 2001. (A problem for writers is that you can’t be responsible for who quotes you.)
I bring “Invictus” into our discussion because of what it has in common with the Whittier and Frost poems. All three touch upon aspects of our human existence, individual choices, and the pursuit of strength in facing life’s uncertainties. They continue to speak to us because they offer insights into our human condition.
I want to conclude with something from a radically different perspective. This past Sabbath (July 29, 2023) in the synagogue, we read a section of the Torah called Va’Etchanan. It opens with the poignant episode of Moses telling the Israelites about God’s decision not to allow him to enter the Promised Land. It’s one of the most emotionally devastating speeches in the Torah. Moses is telling the people how he pleaded with God to be allowed to enter the Holy Land. God angrily denies Moses’ request. Here’s part of the relevant section, Deuteronomy 3:25-28:
Let me, pray, cross over that I may see the goodly land which is across the Jordan, this goodly high country and the Lebanon.’ And the LORD was cross with me because of you, and He did not listen to me. And the LORD said to me, ‘Enough for you! Do not speak more to Me of this matter. Go up to the top of the Pisgah, and raise your eyes to the west and to the north and to the south and to the east and see with your own eyes, for you shall not cross this Jordan. And charge Joshua and strengthen him and bid him take heart, for he shall cross over before this people and he shall give them in estate the land that you will see.’
Alter, Robert. The Five Books of Moses: A Translation with Commentary (p. 878). W. W. Norton & Company. Kindle Edition.
This man who for forty years had gone through so much with these people, these stubborn, complaining people, leading them out of slavery from Egypt to the Promised Land, pleading on their behalf before God, this man is not allowed to enter the land. Moreover, he is told to encourage the man who will lead the people across the Jordan.
The working assumption in the poems I examined briefly is that we make choices; we decide, choose, and are the masters of our fate. The lesson here is that God controls our lives. And sometimes, no matter how much we want, feel we deserve, or even may deserve something, it is denied to us. How we respond in this situation tells us and others who we are; it’s not how we respond when we have made a choice, but rather how we respond when it’s been made for us. Moses longed to enter the land but was permitted to view it only from a mountain.
Something is comforting in thinking we run the show and that the regrets are ours. We earned them. But, ultimately, the lesson is we are not in charge. God is.
Pain, yes; Suffering, yes. Regrets, none.
All the best,
Gershon
Gershon Ben-Avraham 