Haunted

Last night we took the boys Trick-or-Treating with some friends and had a great time. I didn't know whether Monkey would be able to keep up with the four- to seven-year-old crowd on his little two-year-old pirate legs, but he was a champ. I don't think he cares much about the candy yet -- last night he had perhaps his third piece ever and tried to eat the wrapper. Rookie mistake. But the thrill of running from house to house filling his bucket was irresistible and he loved every minute.

Apparently, the porch light code (lights on = candy, lights off = go away) either no longer applies or the people in this particular neighborhood weren't paying much attention to it. So the older boys who were leading our group adopted a scouting approach to each house, running ahead to ring doorbells and shouting back to the younger kids and adults whether each house held the promise of candy or was deserted. I'm not sure why, but after a while, they started saying that the empty houses were "haunted." I guess at six or seven, a lack of candy can be pretty scary.

So I started thinking about the concept of haunted houses. In my current philosophical state, I moved pretty quickly to thinking about haunted people. We all are, aren't we? Maybe not by ghosts and spirits, but by other things: Regret. Loss. Doubt.

Personally, I am haunted by mistakes I've made, things unsaid, and (perhaps more often) things I wish I hadn't said. I am haunted by song lyrics and poetry and even news stories. I'm haunted by longings for things I want desperately and things I can't even name. I'm haunted by reminders that life is short, unpredictable and makes no promises. Even when I count my blessings, I see their shadow -- the knowledge that everything is fleeting and nothing (no one) is mine forever.

Thirteen years ago I was hiking in the Scottish highlands, along a steep and rocky ridge next to a river valley. I'd been wandering around with nothing but a backpack and a credit card for nearly six months, and everything I owned was either strapped to my back or resting a few miles away in a tent, behind a tiny luggage lock. My companion and I had been hiking for hours in silence, waving away the midges and struggling for breath as we ascended into the thin Scottish air.

As we neared the top of a hill, we heard a sudden roar as a black RAF fighter jet zipped between our ridge and the one across the little valley. It flew past us almost at eye level, looking smaller than it sounded, and turned sharply to climb into the blue sky before disappearing over the next mountain. Another jet followed suit, and they both made a couple of passes between the mountains before eventually sliding off into the distance. (We learned later that the area in which we were hiking was a common training ground for fighter pilots to practice rough terrain).

Once they were gone, the beautiful mountain scene returned to its original quiet state and we almost wondered if we had imagined the jets entirely. It was pretty surreal. We continued our climb to the top of the ridge, took pictures, and worked our way back to the campsite a few hours later.

I can't say why, but I am haunted by that moment, even today. Maybe it was the intrusion of technology (instruments of war, no less) on my peaceful hike across the unspoiled Scottish countryside. But I have to admit that seeing the planes was a thrill, rather than a nuisance. Perhaps it was the way the scene changed and then returned to its former state so quickly -- a fleeting moment in time that can never be recaptured.

Or maybe it's because I felt freer in that moment than I have at any other time in my life. Even if it was a completely artificial way of existing, there was something liberating about being 22: carrying all I needed in one well-worn backpack, moving from place to place, snapping pictures and writing in my journal as though it were a real job. Climbing mountains just because they were there to be climbed.

Of course, I can't have that moment in my life back again. And frankly, I wouldn't want it back. There's too much that is wonderful and essential in my totally tied down, mortgage-paying, cheerio-sweeping life. But there are plenty of moments I would like to get back, to relive in a slightly different way. To hold my tongue in a precarious social situation. To speak up for someone who needed it. To hug my parents a little longer, and take the time to write down their stories, the ones I always assumed I'd be hearing again someday. So many choices I look back on and wish I could try out a different path. But then I wouldn't be where I am, wouldn't have the blessings I have. I'd be in an alternate universe that might be less perfect than my current life.

If you've read THE MARRIAGE PACT, you may have picked up on the theme of choices, and how they help weave the story of our lives. My next book is called REGRETS ONLY, and I hope -- through Suzanne's very unique lens -- it will at least touch on the idea of being haunted. By the past, by roads not taken, by moments and relationships lost forever.

Speaking of which, today is the first day of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). While I don't think I can crank out the 3,000 words a day I would need to complete REGRETS before December 1, I'm planning to make major progress this month and will keep you posted.

If you've been waiting for a cue to take a leap in your own life, here it is: November is a great time to seize a moment and accomplish something you've always wanted to do -- whether it's write a novel or pretty much anything else. We cannot recapture the past, but sometimes we can avoid regrets in the future, or at least choose what kind they will be. Better to regret the pain of loss, than of never having put your heart on the line in the first place.

So, good luck and get busy (or unbusy, if that's your thing), because time really does fly.