I love paths.
There’s something about a path that feels less rushed than a trail. Think about it: Trails are blazed. It’s a fiery activity, full of will and strength and courage and might. Trails imply Going Places. Trails often Lead to Something. Trails sometimes Require Machetes. They’re vigorous, purposeful, adventurous.
Paths invite meandering. Wandering. Exploring. Sometimes paths are formal, as in a garden path lined with cobbles. Sometimes they’re worn into the earth by the habits of wild creatures, making their way to nourishing themselves with water or a safe place to sleep. On a path, you can pause to take in the pattern of light through the trees. Or back-track to check the progress of a turtle at the edge of a meadow. Or maybe even simply sit on a rock in a stream and contemplate the passing clouds. Paths may or may not go anywhere specific; they simply unfold.
I’m on a path that started as more of a trail. It was all checklists and task lists and busy-ness and drive. Oh, I was blazing that trail, all right — right up until the moment my plans and schedules burst into flames. Since then, I’ve been forced to move more slowly, more reflectively, with less hurry.
I’m building a new life, after all, and no amount of planning can guarantee where that will end up. I’ll arrive…somewhere, somewhen. And that will have to do.
So, welcome to my story. Come on in. Pull up a chair. Let me serve you a cup of tea. (Would you like a cookie? They just came out of the oven.) Let’s sit together a while and watch this path unfold, one meandering step at a time. I’m as curious as you are to see where it takes me.
Because, truly, I have no idea.