So I set out, not really with a plan, just a sense of determination. The path is dry, the leaves are green, the birds are singing. The morning beckons. A sheen of dew glistens in the sunlight, not a cloud in the sky. I am home. I am happy. I am lost.
I can’t help but hold my chin up, close my eyes, and breathe it all in as I take my first steps. A cool breeze sweeps over my face and I am gone. I want my bicycle, but the terrain calls for something less sophisticated. My feet are the vehicle this path demands as the gravel crunches under my soles.
I open my eyes, look down from the sky and study the horizon. Step by step, it seems to stay the same, as if I will never reach the hazy hills in the distance. Do I even want to? My foot suddenly catches on a root protruding from the path and I realize I should focus a little more on where I am now. I steady myself on a wooden fence post, dust off my hands, and continue on.
I can see the path winding as I begin to raise my eyes again. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. A row of small trees line a knoll as the path curves again. The grass sways freely in the breeze as it has lost the grip from the dew. I pass by a field of clover, pick a flower and breathe in its delicately sweet scent. My sights set again on the hills, still hazy, still out of reach. I don’t want to stop.
As I continue my trek, the path suddenly splits into two. As if out of nowhere, a choice is before me, no markers tell me which way to go. For the first time, I want to stop. Both ways look the same, both seem to lead to the same destination. I have no map, just a sense of direction. I warily make my choice, head down my chosen path, and the hazy hills are still on the horizon.
As I continue to make my way down the path, it suddenly begins to narrow. The gravel turns rough and it is becoming difficult to walk. The sun still shines bright, but it begins to feel hot on my face and the once cool breeze slowly goes away. The path no longer winds and I find myself only walking in a straight line. I no longer want my bicycle. I keep my eyes down, watching the path, making sure I don’t trip on a rock.
As I wearily navigate the stony terrain, a spot of green catches my eye. A patch of clover peaks out from under the rocks and a single flower blooms. I kneel down on the path and put my nose down to the tender little flower. I gently breathe in its sweet scent and remember the field of clovers from earlier in my journey. I lift my eyes to the sky again and breathe it all in as if I were taking my first steps.
The path remains rocky, though not as bad as before, and I feel like I am learning to navigate it. The path steadily begins to widen and wind again; and a gentle breeze fills the air. As the sun crosses the meridian I hold my chin up and close my eyes again. I open my eyes, look down from the sky and study the horizon. I see the hazy hills in the distance but I no longer recognize them. I don’t want to look back to see how far I’ve gone.
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