If only we didn’t try to see the way, if we could trust that there will be a path, a safety net, a light at the end of the tunnel. What does it take to let go and trust your instincts? To look out upon the forest and know there is a wall of rock ledge rising four-stories high at the back. I can’t see it from my house, but I know from my tramping through those woods that it is there, has been there since the ice age brought those boulders crashing down the side of the mountain.
The logging project has opened wide swaths of forest. It is raw and tangled now, but the newly churned soil is rich and the sunlight will help it to heal.
The ledges house coyotes. I hear them calling to each other as they work their way down and through my yard to the swamp across the street. They yelp and yip, a chorus of songs meant to tell each other the direction of the flight of their prey. There are no paths, just the knowledge that the terrain will change and they must be fleet.
The trees that grow at the base of the ledges house ravens, silky black and raucous as they ride the winds created by the shape of the land. They have no paths above the trees, they dodge and dart through the tree-tops in pursuit of food.
If you can’t join the throngs at the grocery store, and your day is centered on finding sustenance, highways are unnecessary. A metaphor for life, really; step off the path…