When It's Time

I am a child walking down a forest path, accompanied by a very tall, very old guide. I know him, and I don't, and as a child, it doesn't matter to me anyway. The day is warm; the sun shining; the countless indications of new life surround and fill our senses.

As we walk, I ask him questions: "Why is the sky blue?"

"The color is really only a matter of your perception," he answers.

"Why do butterflies come from caterpillars?"

"It's what they are meant to do,"

"What's perception?" I ask.

"It doesn't really matter," he replies.

We come upon a trailhead. It's different and interesting: though there is clearly a trail there, it is covered with thick brush, fallen limbs, and other signs of disuse. It is darker there, and colder.

"Shall we go this way?" I ask.

"No, you're not meant to go that way," he replies.

"Why?" I am overflowing with curiosity.

"Because it's not time."

In a moment I'm a young man. I'm taller now, I'm wearing stylish clothes, and my companion isn't so far up any longer. I'm surprised, in the heat and humidity of summer, he seems to have little trouble keeping up with me, but I don't comment on it, for I do not wish to offend.

We come upon a familiar, yet somehow different, trailhead.

"Is this that same trail?" I ask.

"It is."

"It's not as I remember it." I puzzle on this for a moment. Even in my earliest memories, it was a fairly uninviting, obtrusive path. Now it is less so, but still, it did not look entirely passable, and I find myself worrying about my nice clothes, and not wanting to scuff my new shoes.

"It is not," my companion agrees, "It's had some work done on it."

"Before," I begin, "You said it was not time yet."

"Indeed, it was not."

"But I often wondered," I continue, "Surely someone as small as I was back then..."

"Yes?"

I think hard. "Surely a small person has gone down that path before."

"They have," he replies, "But it's not ideal."

I purse my lips and nod, and I am a middle-aged man. I am aware of so many things now, and I am mostly comfortable moving around, albeit without as much fear that I'll be outpacing my walking partner. I notice every color of every leaf, those still on the trees, and also the many strewn and piled upon the ground: some of them crunchy, and some of them still quite fresh from their tumble.

We come upon a trailhead. It's familiar, and though I do not need confirmation, I enjoy the custom and ask, "Is this the same trailhead?"

"It is," my guide acknowledges.

I do not rush to fill the silence, but instead, I stand and breathe the air around me as I observe the ways that I know it has changed. I know that I am not obligated to say any of what I am thinking out loud, but I choose to offer my final distillation: "It seems I could venture that way without much difficulty."

"You could," he replies, "Were it time for you to do so."

Indeed, the path is now mostly cleared: there are still a few strewn twigs and branches, but the ground seems somewhat worn.

"I can accept that this is not the time," I offer, "But I admit I am curious about what lies down that way."

"Does this worry you?" I am aware that this is the first time he has asked me a question.

"A little," I admit. "Only a little."

I turn, somewhat gingerly, for I am an old man and I do not wish to slip or stumble on the snow, and I cannot see very well to be sure if there is ice beneath the fresh powder. For once, I find I worry about keeping up with my companion, but not so much that I become short of breath.

We come upon a trailhead. I have known it my entire life as well as I know it now. The trail is now very clear: there are no limbs or twigs, no obstructions at all, in fact; it's smooth, yet textured; there are lovely, ornate lights lining the path, and there are even benches along the way. The trail is now very warm, and very inviting.

"I..." my voice fails me for a moment. "I no longer fear it."

"I know that you do not," he answers, his voice pragmatic, but not without compassion.

"I do not know why I feel this way now," I confess. "I cannot believe that it was merely a matter of the trail being rough, or that it was without lighting."

"No, it was never those things," he agreed.

"What then? What has changed? I was a young man, and I hiked all kinds of trails, climbed all sorts of hills, slept upon the ground under an entire ocean of stars. I cooked food upon fires I had built with my own hands, and I survived days far colder than this."

A pause, not because he must think of the words he will choose, but because he knows the importance of being sure I have had a chance to conclude. He knows me very well.

"Furthermore," I continue, for I am, and always have been, incapable of brevity, "I have seen others go down this way before. I have seen children go down there, and young men, and men older than I am now. I have seen many men and women, those who I have loved, go this way."

"But though they went this way, maybe... maybe it was not ideal."

At last, I am quiet.

At last, he answers, "This is why you no longer fear this trail."

Together we stand at the threshold. I search his face for an explanation, but he silently urges me to look forward, down the path a bit. There I see them, the ones who went that way before me: they're smiling and waving, welcoming me back as a longtime friend, as a son, or as a father.

"You no longer fear this trail because they went ahead, and they got everything ready for you. When you were a young man, there was much about this that was untested, and that made you feel uncertain, and uncertainty leads us to feel fear."

"I am without fear," I confirm. "I know whatever lies ahead, they did it first, so I will be fine."

Finally, it is time, and we step forward.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I dedicate this piece to Mark Helmsing. Happy Trails, my friend.