In my younger days, when summer was never ending and the river never stopped flowing; when snow fell before me, just because it was beautiful in its silence; when my muse was a single stick and a blanket to pitch my tent beneath the summer moon; when a walk on a country lane was a walk through my imagination—I thought the world was spinning just for me. I thought the roads were paved of gold just so they could pay my fare to another time.
Imagine my surprise to find that there were many roads, some paved with blistering sands, walked just for a pail of dirty water. Some muddied, rutted, navigated for countless miles, until feet went numb—simply to learn to write a name. Roads with dead ends; stopping another’s dreams and yet, sometimes allowing a pause, to regroup; reshape what it is you are walking to, for. Others, for marching: marching for peace; marching in honor; marching to kill the enemy; marching so children may enjoy the parade.
Roads are made to guide us, yes. But they are also made to stumble upon; race down; sweep and help someone find you. Now, no longer a young girl; no longer the dreamer I once was…. I look down the road of whence I came, and I smile—but not without tears. For I’ve learned what it means to live and though I stand before you, die. Deaths along my road of love; treasures and hopes: it was those very intersections that I could have made turns to take me somewhere than where I am now. I do not regret my road traveled—much I forged; much was laid before me.
Today, my road, much like my life, brings me a peace. I’ve learned to let go of some paved gold; and I’ve learned to appreciate the dry riverbed… Life is my continuum, as I am reborn every second that I breathe and every road that I walk. I still admire the dairy cows standing under the same sun that I stand beneath; I hear their breath and try to breathe with them; I see the goats, the sheep and the horses and think of all of the springs I’ve been given to share with other lives, so far, 60 of them.
I no longer think my road will lead me to heaven; I am just old enough to see I am in heaven right here on earth…my road of lifetimes only dwells there; it is me which makes it a hell. My road doesn’t take me somewhere, it is beneath my feet at all times and it is my heart which paves this magical road I walk… it is my dreams; my soul; my countless desires; my dandelions full of impending wishes, awaiting my command, which builds my road. If I am stung while walking my road, it is because the bee is saying: “Wake up and feel something bigger than you.” If I cry on my road, it is the cloud I let envelope me, instead of choosing to walk atop it. And when I am in love on my road, I have achieved something extraordinarily magnificent; I have managed to stay grounded on this earth as I paint my silver linings around the clouds which used to hang above me.
I’ve learned that the view I see, along my road, is within me. I am not really looking out that much, I am looking in. In, where the road can take you around a bend in any given jiffy second; in, where the view matters; in, where the warmth is mine. Roads are a funny lot, they can appear to inconvenience and detour you, but in truth, there is probably no such thing.
My road isn’t as beautiful as it was when I was a young girl; but it is certainly richer and certainly brings with it a character I wouldn’t trade for this old-spinning-world. My road is my road, broken, but within the broken pieces is the story of my life—full, lush and waiting for me to rise up and create a new; waiting for me to walk a little farther.
I’ve become comfortable with my road; I understand it and I have learned why I am the only one to walk it. I can look back and see why I am on it and I can look forward and see how I need it to be for me to continue: At the end of the day, it is mine to walk; to paint; to mind and I am counting on it, to tell me when I’ve come to its end.
Robin Clark