Some paths long to woo us.
The sand dune climb towards a pine-fringed crescent bay. The tunnel of dark trees opening on a flower-filled meadow. The mountain summit’s vista across an endless horizon.
Spectacular paths through jaw-dropping landscapes intend to wow and seduce. Moments of breathless anticipation, transcendent joy and the warm afterglow of aching limbs and flushed cheeks.
But I sometimes wonder whether these paths are trying a little too hard to impress. Like an overeager young lover who appears on their first date with flowers, a bottle of wine and a declaration of undying love, it’s all too much, too soon.
“Breathe,” I whisper to the path, as it pushes to its heady climax. “There’s no rush. We can take this slowly.”
Love can be found in grand, sweeping, romantic gestures. But the love that transforms, nurtures and sustains us, the love that wraps us in comfort on a cold February day, is a love that arrives gently.
I have walked so many paths, more than I remember. But the paths that stay with me are the ones that loved me quietly, tenderly, and without pretence. These are the paths that met my weary feet with kindness, the paths that encouraged me to rest, the paths that led me home.
Like a partner reaching to take my hand when I needed reassurance, these are the paths that created a space for me to move through the world without the expectation of performance. Just a simple knowing that, in this next step, I am more than enough.
These are the paths I love.
I love all your photos of the paths you love, the ones that aren't trying too hard. Delightful.
Hear, hear! Wordsworth would agree!