Little Roads

As a passenger on the interstate I noticed a road beside the Road.  Small, often dirt or even grass, occasionally vanishing into a low swampy place, this little road followed along the interstate highway.  I never saw a single traveler on that little parallel road.  We (I was a passenger so of course we) were whizzing by other cars and having other cars whiz by us and I was struck with an image of a little boy in overalls with a piece of straw between his teeth strolling down the slow road.  I was overcome momentarily with the urge to be that little boy.  Heck, I think I was that little boy long ago and far away.

Sailing down the highway the scenery blurred by, indistinct and then gone before it could really be seen.  I was moving fast but I never actually was anywhere.  I think that little boy was exactly where he was.  I think he could see and smell and hear everything around him from the heat of the day on his skin to the pebbles under his feet to the breeze helping to dry the sweat on his forehead to the smell of summer grass nearby to the sound of the cars blurring by on the big road.

A thing I realized is that if I’m always going to somewhere then I’m never actually where I want to be.  I think the little boy, even though he was going somewhere, was still somewhere he wanted to be.

We’re always traveling.  Even sitting still is traveling though you’re not picking the direction if you’re sitting still.  We can’t stay in the same place because every moment is a different place.




We could remember that every step is a place to be and that if we hurry so much to the big destinations we miss being in all the little places in between.

Maybe that’s just me.


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