Dave Hop The snow was heavy and the road home long. The walking was slow and my feet were clogged and cumbersome. I had set out with too few clothes and no map or phone so I could only trust my instincts, which were often wrong. As I stood in the same clearing for the third time, I looked at the sky, cottonwool mottled and grey with the coming of night.
A voice on my shoulder muttered that I would never get home.
I was inclined to agree and my heart sank fast. I whispered a desperate prayer.
A breeze brushed the branches of a nearby tree, as if it attracting my attention. I clomped over to it, bone weary and colder than ever.
I stood still and waited, the branches moved again as I felt the breeze like icy breath on my cheeks. And then I saw it. As the branches parted I caught a glimpse of a track I had not tried.
So narrow it was almost imperceptible. But there it was. So I started walking.
The going was hard, uphill and full of twists and turns, so when I came to a fork and another road was wider and easier I chose that one. Something inside me was twitching though, a kind of reflux, and eventually I turned back and reluctantly resumed my journey on the narrower path. Other wide roads beckoned along the way, but even if I took a few steps I instantly feal the unease again.
So I ventured on. After a while I noticed a could make out a distant song through the trees, something which put life in my spirit. I got the feeling that this road was indeed leading somewhere, and somewhere good. I would occasionally stop and look around and the shape of a tree would make me smile, or the antics of a small animal would bring a chuckle. The unease I had felt on the wide road turned to a kind of assurance, an assurance that carried a texture of joy shot through it. Something that brings depth and strength to my travelling. And so I walk on. And this story continues. And I’m yet to find that true home. But I keep going. As I’m sure you do. And in the walking we begin to realise that the journey is all part of the destination.
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