Forks in the Road and Braids in the Paths
The path at first is worn by our mothers and fathers,
Picking us up and taking us along.
We learn to crawl, walk, then run
Our little feet growing, our shoes changing with age and the seasons.
A grippy sock spun around our one foot, the other fallen off, missing and lost
Rain boots on the wrong feet, covered in mud and loose grass,
Socks and slippers, then velcro, then laces,
We run, skip, jump, and trip
Our footsteps tracing erratic paths to the playground, to our mothers,
To our snacks and our naps.
The terrain changes with age
Into our boots, flip flops, birkenstocks, and crocs,
Our footsteps take us through the halls of our schools,
Into the gymnasiums of our childhoods
Across stages and out into the fresh air of graduation,
Where we each begin the path of our own.
We purchase professional shoes
For professional steps
Hiking boots
For weekend play
Our footsteps dip in and out of coffee shops,
We go to jobs, to apartments, to the bananas, eggs, and milk.
On cement or in snow
We come and we go
As we wear paths of our own.
Our footsteps race with impulsivity
And hesitate with fresh choices
We get tripped by old decisions about to expire.
We step over obstacles
Or misstep into trouble
Often finding ourselves
In front of the fridge
In the silent pursuit of something else, something new.
We climb mountains
Run races
Lift weight at our gyms
We deliver speeches
Join gatherings
Read the news
We cross borders
Enter bedrooms
Race to the hospital
We go to our mats to go within
We go to our knees to go above.
We can be proud of our journey
And ashamed about what we have to show for it.
We are human.
We are being.
If our steps could be seen in
How we raced time, each other, and ourselves as the pace picked up
Or when danced together at weddings, and alone in our kitchens
Or stood beside and stood still, in support.
If we could see the steps we took walking away
Or of their steps walking away from us.
If we could bear witness to the footprints that stay in sync with our own
Ours growing, theirs slowing,
Often freckled with the dots of a cane, or flanked by wheels of a walker.
The forks in our roads
And braids in our paths
A telling of choices made
Of experiences both not had and had.
There is beauty
In each step
Each decision,
Purposeful or not,
Like the strokes from a paint brush we are creating
A work of collective art.
The braided paths and the pace
Are covered in grace
May we smile at, chase down, and embrace
All the forks in the road
Of this human race.
