On my lunch (half-) hour walk from my downtown office, I took a new path and was faced with the choice of climbing over an ancient rock outcropping on the Brandywine River or walking on the pavement with the chance of a car coming around the curve too close. I chose the pavement.
There was a time in my life--and a place--when I would have climbed the rocks. Disregarding the deer ticks and poison ivy, disregarding the fact that I was wearing a long skirt, disregarding possibly having to blaze my own trail, I would have charged forward, intrepid in the face of a challenge. It all began with my brother taking me on a walk in the mountains, then making me find our way home. He didn't leave me; he just wouldn't tell me which way to go.
I've had lots of walks in the mountains since then. When you go up the mountain, you know you'll get a view at the top. When you go down the mountain, chances are you'll come to rushing water (with lots of rocks to climb). When you walk along the beach, you can look far ahead and set your own goals--plus, your feet get all smooth from the rubbing sand.
In the Himalayas, you really have to put your mp3 away and pay attention to the sounds, sights and smells around you while you walk.
I'll have to take that wrong turn again one day, and climb the rocks next time.
