How do we navigate this precarious time, a time when they are pushing and we are pulling? How do we explain that we have mapped out a road but we want them to find their own way? How do we help them when we haven’t even cleared out the brush from our own path yet? And we keep looking behind and seeing them and seeing all the paths we didn’t take covered over now with fallen trees and underbrush. We can see the gaping gorge ahead but we do not know which path leads to it. We see the mountains and can’t tell them whether they should try them or not. Will they fall? Will they have to stop halfway up and turn around and take another path?
We want to put up signs–arrows and markers–that will lead them to safety, wonderment. We don’t even know. But we are afraid they will get to a point, stop, put their hands on their hips and yell, “Why didn’t you put up a marker or something? Why didn’t you tell me about the ditch, about the rough terrain?” And we yell back that we did put up something we thought, but maybe it disappeared, maybe it fell down, a branch grew in front of it. We promise we meant to help.
But maybe they don’t believe. Maybe they spent a while in the ditch, working hard to get out. And we didn’t even see them because now they are a speck on the horizon. And they’re off the path anyway.