(listening time: 7:11 minutes)
Once upon a time, a gray-haired woman adopted a friendly black and tan puppy and named her Asha.
The woman was happy to have a walking companion again.
At first they walked on the road, but one morning, Asha pulled the woman over to a small trail that led into the woods.
Why not? the woman thought.
And so they began exploring trails together.
Their walks grew longer. They walked on sunny days, rainy days, snowy days, cloudy days, foggy days and windy days. They walked up hills and down hills, across bridges, along streams and among stone walls. They trudged through snow and slipped on ice, squelched through spring mud, plodded through summer humidity and mosquitoes, and meandered through fiery leaves falling like glitter.
They saw bears, deer, foxes, beavers, porcupines, squirrels and chipmunks (and even a moose!). The woman learned bird songs and became acquainted with flowers and ferns, trees and mushrooms. Asha lay in ponds and engaged in her own explorations of smells and tastes, sounds and movement.
They developed favorite trails. The woman came to know the turns and slopes, the ruts and puddles of these well-worn paths. She knew where and when to find bright pink Fringed Polygala flowers, remembered where Asha startled a Wild Turkey and knew where she was likely to hear Red-winged Blackbirds.
She found comfort in these trails, in knowing them well, and often chose them after being away or simply when she wanted the grounding of their familiarity.
She also liked a healthy dose of adventure, so when a trail seemed to magically appear, she was known to say, “Asha, I wonder where this trail goes. Let’s walk to that tree and see what we see.” Then, when they reached the tree, she’d say, “Let’s see what’s around that bend.” And on it would go, her curiosity pulling them forward.
Sometimes she didn’t know where the trail would take them. Other times she had a vague (or a clear) sense of how the new trail fit in with all the others.
One fall morning, the kind of fall morning that’s perfect for an adventure – clear blue sky with puffy white clouds, crisp air, autumnal foliage, no mosquitoes – the woman said, “Asha, let’s go explore that trail I’ve been curious about.” Asha hesitated, then agreed.
As they walked, the woman remembered two art pieces she’d seen back before she had any gray hairs. Each was a map of an unnamed place the artist had lived. The artist had drawn the streets she knew best with darker lines than those she didn’t know well.
When the woman and Asha returned home, she made a cup of tea, gathered pens and pencils, opened her journal to a blank page and lightly sketched out the loop they’d walked that morning.
As she considered how dark or light to make each part of the loop, she reflected on her years of walking. She smiled about the many afternoons she and Asha sat at the serene beaver pond with a thermos of tea. She remembered the morning they turned around at the rickety bridge because she felt they were wandering too far from home. On another walk they made one choice at the intersection at the top of the hill and returned a different day to explore the other choice. She recalled walking one portion of the loop with friends, human and canine, and how they ended up calling a mutual friend for a ride back to their cars.
When she finished drawing, the woman picked up her mug and discovered that she’d become so engrossed in her memories that her tea was now lukewarm. She sipped it anyway and looked at her map.
The first section of the loop was the darkest. The line grew lighter the farther they walked, with the new-to-them section represented by a dotted green line. At the point where they returned to known territory the line became light gray, then gradually darker as they approached their starting point.
Her first thought was Yes, this shows that my knowledge of these trails, where they go and how they fit together, has grown. Slowly and organically.
Then she thought about how, time and again, she’d reached the edge of what she knew and had stretched into the unknown, into the unfamiliar.
The woman understood that her growing knowledge of the trails was intertwined with a deepening trust in herself. The more she explored and found her way (even if it meant turning around or calling for a ride home), the more she listened to and trusted herself. And the more she listened to and trusted herself to know when and how far to push, the more she explored.
She rolled up the map, tied it with a silver ribbon and placed it among treasured objects on her desk.
Just then Asha came over to the woman’s desk and wagged her tail. “You’re right,” the woman said, “it’s time for our afternoon walk.” She stood up, stretched, put on her boots and gathered her keys, Asha’s leash and treats.
Now we’ve come to the part of the story where I’m supposed to say that the woman and Asha walked happily ever after, but it’s too soon to tell.
However, I have it on good authority that the woman has unrolled the map at least once and whispered to herself, “See, you found your way before. You can do it again.”
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