Footprints In The Sand
So as I’m running, I’m having trouble concentrating on the problems at hand. Random thoughts keep sliding across my mind.
Foremost among them at the moment, for some reason, is that poem about footprints in the sand. The guy sees two sets of footprints, and then sometimes he sees only one set of footprints. God tells him that the second pair of feet belongs to him.
When the guy asks God why sometimes there’s only one trail, God explains that at those times, he was carrying the guy.
I never really bought it. For a start, how wouldn’t you know if someone had picked you up and carried you, unless they knocked you unconscious first? And if God didn’t knock the guy out, and didn’t carry the guy, how else would you explain the missing footprints?
I’ll tell you how… God is a stealthy son of bitch, and sometimes he was ninja-stalking the guy, walking in the other guy’s prints.
I don’t know why God would do a thing like that… I’m no theologist.
The heat in my lungs reminds me that I’m no athlete, either. I’m a writer.
I stop for a second, take a breath, and glance behind me. Nothing, but that doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.
I start running again.
I’m coming toward a fork in the path. I can’t tell for sure, but if my sense of direction and of this park is worth anything, going one way takes me back toward the main greens, and the crowds of people, and the other takes me back through the woods and into the looping web of pathways and ponds.
Pretty soon I’ll have to choose which way to go, but all I’m thinking is that when I was a kid, I was an idiot.
I don’t mean a really little kid – all really little kids are idiots. I mean in my teens. I’m thinking of the poem by Robert Frost, about the road not taken.
It’s about two paths diverging in some woods. The poet takes the road less travelled by, which he says makes all the difference.
I was obsessed by what I thought was the point of that poem, as a pretentious, nail-polish wearing teenage geek. I was convinced that it was a call to individuality – a rationalisation of the urge not to conform. To rebel against what I saw as “the norm”.
Thinking about it years later, I reassessed. It’s not about that at all. The one road may be less used than the other, but it’s still a road. Even a bit overgrown, there’s still a safety – a security blanket – suggested by the fact that you’re not the only person choosing that route.
This isn’t the most helpful train of thought to take right now, as the junction gets closer. The nearer I get, the slimmer my choices start to feel – divided not by possibilities but by the time I’ve got to make the call. I can almost feel the diminishing of potential catching up to me, like death on my heels. Which, I suppose, it really is.
The only truly brave path would be to find a trail – or no trail at all – into the undergrowth. Not only would you be out on a limb – in the danger zone, forging a new way. You’d also, in a strange way, be exposed to those that would hunt you – to harm or just to ridicule. In the deep woods, a man is easier to track, because the signs of his passing are more pronounced. On a busy thoroughfare, he’s easier to lose among the tracks.
In a real sense, the less-travelled road is really just the most self-important option. It isn’t the choice to innovate or be an individual – it’s a deliberate decision to join the elite few.
And oh, Jesus, would you listen to me? When a guy has got as cynical and precious as this, the question is, who wouldn’t want to kill him?
I’m standing fully on the junction now. I was right – if I look one way, I can see wide open fields, and groups of people, walking dogs, playing frisbee, picnicking. The other direction, there is no sign of anybody. On the other hand, the path winds and tangles, and you can’t see all that far. That way, it’d be further to safety, but nearer to be out of sight.
I look back along the route I’ve come, and don’t see my pursuer. Okay, granted, the thoughts going through my head probably demand persecution, but out here in the world, I’ve no real idea why this guy, with his very real and very scary gun, is chasing me.
I squint and try to see as far as the last bend I sprinted round, and I can’t see him yet, but I know he’s back there somewhere. I glance back at the two paths, diverging, here in the park. I can’t off-road it and run through the thick wood – too easy to track, and the lead I’ve got on him would run down quick if I started having to try and find my own path.
If I take the popular path but don’t run quick enough to make it to the safety in numbers of the park-goers, he’ll have a clear shot. But if I go the lonely route but don’t get far enough along to be out of sight before he’s in view, he’ll be able to follow me and pick me off at his leisure…
I take the left path. But I won’t know until I either die or survive if it’s the right path.
