Footpaths- A repost

Just one more repost. Just going through stuff cleaning up and found this to share from my earlier writings. Hope no one minds.


Thursday, May 8, 2008
Footpaths
When I was young, really young, during that age where all of life is a mystery and absorbed through the senses in a much deeper way than now after much desensitization, I was a voyager. I remember actually thinking how I wanted to unravel the wonders of this planet and its origins. I wanted to meet the designer and discuss the whys. My vocabulary was a tad bit limited at the time but the thought process and motivation was very much present.

The vocabulary has expanded slightly, the senses have lost some of their strength and I can say that going to port would be more my speed now than a hard rode voyage. I still do want to meet the designer, although in some respects I have, and I still have the “whys” stumbling around in my head. Someday I know I’ll have those answers.

Lately I find myself flipping through memories. Much of it is triggered with sensory stimuli. I was having lunch at work the other day when the smell of the hot asphalt brought me back umpteen years. That was such a regular summer smell where I grew up. Most of our roads had been of the gravel variety, hard on tires and windshields not to mention feet. But for a few summers the town was laying down road with a fever pitch. I had the misfortune of stepping on one of those roads too soon after having been laid down because of my insatiable curiosity. I was a female Huck Finn of sorts and there was no way you could get me to put shoes on my feet if it were optional for the day. Well for a few days afterwards shoes were NOT an option. Blisters saw to that.

There was another smell that always lingered and mingled with the asphalt. I think they called it creosote. I could be wrong. Probably am. But it was the smell that radiated off the hot railroad ties. We had a stretch of railroad that went nearly through the center of town. We had long been a lumbering region and the railroad was crucial. I used to walk a good stretch of that track at least three times a week. I even conquered the trestle. Nearly got hit by a train once too for my efforts.

There was literally tons of granite underneath that trestle. I would climb down the slope to go find me a few choice pieces to bring home as trophies. After I filled my pockets with those I would follow the river for awhile that would eventually spill me out near the dam. You had to be careful walking this stretch because some pockets of underground, bubbling springs were to be found. You’d sink in a good way if you weren’t careful. I used to challenge myself as to how long I could keep my feet in this icy water before the ache got to be too much.

Once I found the dam then it was a tarzan climb up the steep slope of a hill that I called “My Little Mountain”. This hill would be covered in daisies through the summer. I’d run through it and the grasshoppers would be so thick it looked like I was splashing with each step. Once I got near enough to the top I would lay back into these daisies facing the river below me. To a child’s eye and imagination that was a river of diamonds glistening up at me. On my mountain I felt rich. I would continue to lay there for a large chunk of time just listening to the mountain, daydreaming in the clouds and feeling complete.

When the sun got to a certain level even I knew it was time to venture back home. I would pick a huge bouquet of flowers and then take the more direct route home to save time. It never was as satisfying as going the narrow path with all the obstacles and experiences that got me there in the first place. I guess life is like that in a way. Take the path everyone else takes and you may miss the wonders that await you had you gone another way. Not to mention missing out on finding out just what you are capable of when faced with challenges. Well worn paths don’t stir up the imagination and give you fertile ground to dream with. I hope with age I haven’t lost that voyager spirit.

I see that spirit alive and well in my children. When I get to fretting about them I need to remember my own narrow path and all the blessings that were realized because of it. I pray their senses come alive with the kind of vibrancy I so vividly remember in my mind but so inadequately can express on paper.

God is good……all the time.