Compromises

The sun is low in the sky and throws long shadows across the hardened snow. As I sit here, looking out my kitchen window, I'm reminded of my childhood. The trees are young and thin. Their shadows snake across the white-blue snow, reaching toward me, reminding me that another day is gone and I still don't know whether to point my compass north or south, east or west. Which direction is my direction?

I've done things that I swore I would never do, things, the mere suggestion of which, would have sent me into spasms of laughter, shaking my head and shouting, "Me? No Never. Not me." These things are the results of compromises. If you are a proud woman, a woman of substance and high ideals, or a man who appreciates such women, you should stop reading. You should, but you won't.