A hidden path that starts at a dead end,
Old ways, renewed by walking with a friend,
And crossing places taken hand in hand,

The passages where nothing need be said,
With bruised and scented sweetness underfoot
And unexpected birdsong overhead,

The sleeping life beneath a dark-mouthed burrow,
The rooted secrets rustling in a hedgerow,
The land’s long memory in ridge and furrow,

A track once beaten and now overgrown
With complex textures, every kind of green,
Land- and cloud-scape melting into one,

The rich meandering of streams at play,
A setting out to find oneself astray,
And coming home at dusk a different way.
~Malcolm Guite “Prayer/Walk”

Twice each day I walk the same downhill path to the barn for chores.  In the early mornings, I’m navigating half asleep. In the evenings, I’m weary from the long day. Sometimes I’m sliding on icy snow, sometimes slipping in mud from unending rain, sometimes wading through a sea of overgrown grass.

The constant in this twice daily journey is the worn-down path itself and where it takes me– no matter what time of year, the state of the weather, or how temporarily difficult to discern. My feet have learned the way by feel as much as by sight–the twist here, the dip there, the aromatic stretch through the stand of wild mint, all while trying to avoid stepping on the swerving barn cat perpetually underfoot.

Even my dogs follow the path rather than venture beyond.

I prefer to take the demarcated path to the barn as it keeps me focused on the task ahead of me. If I happen to go astray, I will surely find weeds to pull, a bird to admire, a cluster of cherries to eat, or a sweet pea blossom to smell. 

The distraction brings me momentary delight but my work remains to be done. So I always find my way back to the path and stick to it until it takes me home.

As a teenager, I was a trailblazer, bushwhacking my way through brambles to see what might be on the other side, or to discover a new favorite place in the woods, or simply to prove I was stronger than the brush that yielded to me. In my older years, I now tend to stick to the familiar. I like knowing where my feet will land, what work my hands will touch, and where my head will rest. The adventure of the unknown, so attractive in my youth, is less appealing now. 

The visible path, even when difficult to follow due to cover of snow or abundance of overgrowth, is a reminder I have a purpose and a destination. I know where I am going and I know where I’ve been. Nothing more needs to be said. I know I’m needed in both house and barn and the familiar path I take is a bridge between them.

We tread many paths during our time on this soil–some are routine and mundane, leading to the chores in our life, and others a matter of the heart and spirit. As tempting as it is to wander, the path is there for good reason. It doesn’t have to be a super highway, or lined with gold or even paved with good intentions. It may not be straight. But it must be true, steadfastly leading us to where we are called and back again to where we belong.

Time to pull on my boots.