Sunday, April 11, 2010

A Metaphor on Santa Cruz Island

A long time ago, my favorite therapist, who talked to me in metaphor, because I could not hear the truth spoken plain, would tell me I was on a path. She would describe the path, and where I was going (or where I was aimed) and what I could see, feel, smell--or not.

I loved the game (because I am a traveler) and when I am down I ask Jonathan, my storyteller, to indulge me.

"Where are we on the path now?" I ask.

And, if he is in the mood, he will tell me.

"We are walking along in the forest, there are shafts of light coming through, we cannot see where we are going, but it is beautiful..."

or

"We are on a bleak, rocky stretch. It is hard. But far away in the distance, we can see a mountain, and it is beautiful, and we know where we are going..."

or whatever.

On Thursday we went out to Santa Cruz Island to camp. I love Santa Cruz Island. It is virtually untouched, and now that the final sheep have been cleared away, and the island has been recovering for 10 years, the island is nearly pristine. No cars, no commercialism, no money, but that which you carry in your pockets. You walk out of the campground and you see hardly anyone. You walk more than a half mile and you are alone.

On Thursday afternoon we hiked to Potato Harbor. We were on a path that cut across the bluffs of the island. Everything is green, now, and covered with wildflowers--wild mustard, coreopsis, purple flowers I do not know, and wild nettles. The grass is so high it ripples like ocean, and if you close your eyes you can hear it. A simple road stretched out before us, cutting through the green. There were flowers and grass. Hills soared up to the left. The ocean fell away to the right. Ahead were the jagged peaks of the other end of Santa Cruz--different geographically from the rolling hills of the East End of the Island--and off limits to the public. They belong to the Nature Conservancy.

The path was so beautiful, that on that day it felt like heaven. And the road did feel like a metaphor. It just cut so clear and clean across the top of the land, like a poem. You could see forever in every direction.

But here was our metaphor. We could see the path stretching straight ahead. It was a wide trail, and comfortable. and you could see that far away it just stopped at a cliff: Potato Harbor. You could see the harbor pretty well from far away. You could see the road, and where it would end up. In a way, you did not need to go to the end. You wouldn't get much extra. It was so obvious. You were done before you got there--all the beauty, all the views, all the walking. Why not turn back? Did we really need to walk the extra quarter mile? But we were with the boys, so we kept walking, to the end of the wide path.

But when we got there, what a surprise. The path had looked like it ended, like there was nowhere else to go.

We were wrong.

There, cutting away from the path that petered out over the perfect view in a big bald patch like a picnic terrace was another path. It was a smaller path, low in the grass, impossible to see until you were right on top of it. But when you got to it, to the end of the other obvious path, there it was, as clear as day, leading on, to somewhere even cooler, even farther. But the thing was, you had to walk to the very end of the obvious path, to the final step, to see what came next.

If you didn't, if you stopped even twenty yards short, because you were sure you knew what you would find, you would have missed it. And you never would have questioned, or known what you had missed.

But you would have--that secret path was just waiting.

How many of us have the courage to walk to the very end of the path, to see what is next. We always think we can see. We always believe we know where every path leads. It is so obvious. Clear as day. But how often are we wrong?

We will never know. Until we go to the bitter end, and don't second guess.

The path is always there.

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