Walking through a field beats down the bush into a hardened trail not unlike how the trail beats down the weary traveler who has traversed this path so many times before. As the trail begins to deepen and form a rut if we are lucky we awaken to the stark realization that we are now in it and passing through it and have been for some length of time, at least long enough to form the rut. Then as we are thinking about how and if and when we might find our way out, it starts to rain and the rain becomes muck and the muck becomes mud. Often at this point we discover that we are on a slippery slope. We sometimes wallow in the muck of our own creation burying even the idea of getting out. One day, by happenstance or by design, we find the turf of our trail is dryed by the dawn of a new day. Suddenly we find ourselves on a trail amidst a field of brilliant purple clover. At that moment, but only if we are lucky, and fully aware or entirely determined, can we move our small steps, just a little, to step up out of the rut of our making. At that moment we find our toes are no longer stuck in the muck nor in the lost days of our past. We discover we can run freely through the waving grasses. We smell the sweet perfect clover at our feet. And in that singular moment, when we are self freed of the ruts of our past, it may be hard to look back and understand just how we got there in the first place. We wonder why we waited so long to step out to where we belong. And yet the better part of ourselves drinks in the knowledge that we were, then, lost souls, on a trail of dust, of our own making, swirling around us and that that chaos blocked even the view, of the beauty so seemingly so far, yet actually so near. We see ourselves embrace the hope of a new beginning. Our new start is grounded with the wisdom of our past travels along the rutted road. For only by leaving the rutted roads of our past may we find the sweet fields and green pastures of our future.
