A measure of the marks we leave
As the grass grows high, in defiance of everyone pushing a mower or swinging a line trimmer, the paths taken by the dogs regain their definition.
In winter, they are tracks in snow, slightly muddy places, barely discernible. When summer comes, they are clear V’s in straight lines crisscrossing the yard. I can see the way the German shepherd trots from the driveway to the barn, barn to grandma’s house, grandma’s house back to the other gate of our yard. Her feet pound triangles between important places in her life, the places where she looks for us.
With my little beagle mix in tow, she makes her rounds.
Joshua said there was once a path like that, padded smooth by the feet of he and his sister, crossing the road to see their Maw maw and Paw paw.
I delight in the divot left by the right-side wheels of the mailman, the little semi-circles tracing the places he or she goes to ensure the parcels land in their assigned box.
Tracks of meaning, I guess, of the lives we lead.
I can never remember what college it is, but sometime in the 1970’s, I believe the story goes, the administration constructed a new building. Rather than placing sidewalks as they wished while the cement mixer was on site, they waited a year. The students smoothed paths through the lawn, showing the routes they routinely took. The school then paved those paths, leaving a concrete reminder of the lives of those students in the inaugural year of the building.
I sometimes wonder if the truth of our lives isn’t in the tracks we leave. I know there’s been plenty of talk about reducing our carbon footprint, treating the environment with kid gloves. I guess I am learning to see it as just one reminder of the messes we leave in our wake. Glass bottles, piles of paper, broken hearts, strewn along the years of our lives.
It’s easy to feel the marks others leave on us. We cry when someone takes our toys as toddlers. We cry when our young hearts are broken for the first time, which is never the last. We carry those wounds, even without physical scars, into the future. We carry our experiences on our skin, our hearts and our minds. We know what we’ve suffered.
At the same time, the marks we leave on others, on the world around us, can only be seen in the rearview mirror. Too often, I know I don’t look back.
I guess I’m feeling more and more that I want to know my marks have been good ones, not angry graffiti or broken glass. I want to leave the world better than I found it. I want to try to intersperse the impact of my life with a little joy.
So, I buy my reusable shopping bags and a cloth sack for sandwiches that can be washed in the dishwasher. I recycle my bottles and cans, try to reduce my physical impact on the world in which I live. I turn off lights when I leave the room, run water only when I’m using it and drive a compact car that gets more than 35 miles to the gallon.
No matter what I do to try and sweep away the footprints of my consumption, I know my life will be measured by the steps I choose to take, the prints I decide to make. It’s up to me to make the right decisions, to leave more than excuses to fill the holes I dig.
In winter, they are tracks in snow, slightly muddy places, barely discernible. When summer comes, they are clear V’s in straight lines crisscrossing the yard. I can see the way the German shepherd trots from the driveway to the barn, barn to grandma’s house, grandma’s house back to the other gate of our yard. Her feet pound triangles between important places in her life, the places where she looks for us.
With my little beagle mix in tow, she makes her rounds.
Joshua said there was once a path like that, padded smooth by the feet of he and his sister, crossing the road to see their Maw maw and Paw paw.
I delight in the divot left by the right-side wheels of the mailman, the little semi-circles tracing the places he or she goes to ensure the parcels land in their assigned box.
Tracks of meaning, I guess, of the lives we lead.
I can never remember what college it is, but sometime in the 1970’s, I believe the story goes, the administration constructed a new building. Rather than placing sidewalks as they wished while the cement mixer was on site, they waited a year. The students smoothed paths through the lawn, showing the routes they routinely took. The school then paved those paths, leaving a concrete reminder of the lives of those students in the inaugural year of the building.
I sometimes wonder if the truth of our lives isn’t in the tracks we leave. I know there’s been plenty of talk about reducing our carbon footprint, treating the environment with kid gloves. I guess I am learning to see it as just one reminder of the messes we leave in our wake. Glass bottles, piles of paper, broken hearts, strewn along the years of our lives.
It’s easy to feel the marks others leave on us. We cry when someone takes our toys as toddlers. We cry when our young hearts are broken for the first time, which is never the last. We carry those wounds, even without physical scars, into the future. We carry our experiences on our skin, our hearts and our minds. We know what we’ve suffered.
At the same time, the marks we leave on others, on the world around us, can only be seen in the rearview mirror. Too often, I know I don’t look back.
I guess I’m feeling more and more that I want to know my marks have been good ones, not angry graffiti or broken glass. I want to leave the world better than I found it. I want to try to intersperse the impact of my life with a little joy.
So, I buy my reusable shopping bags and a cloth sack for sandwiches that can be washed in the dishwasher. I recycle my bottles and cans, try to reduce my physical impact on the world in which I live. I turn off lights when I leave the room, run water only when I’m using it and drive a compact car that gets more than 35 miles to the gallon.
No matter what I do to try and sweep away the footprints of my consumption, I know my life will be measured by the steps I choose to take, the prints I decide to make. It’s up to me to make the right decisions, to leave more than excuses to fill the holes I dig.