Editor's note: This letter was originally published 1o years ago today.
Following pathways
Pathways call out to me. "Come, follow me," they say, "around a bend, over a hill, across a meadow, beside a lake, through a wood."
Usually they have no name, although some that might be called trails sometimes do. I take my walking staff in hand and say "surprise me" as I take the offer and follow one into a forest.
There I am mentally transported back in time hundreds, perhaps thousands of years to a time when only footpaths or horse trails connected one village to another. Only silence and the sounds of the forest engulf me.
As I walk I am torn between being grateful for the present and envious of the past where noisy motor cars, trains and airplanes were unheard of.
The forest is a reverent, almost holy place. "In the rustling grass, I hear him pass" says the old hymn. In the rustling trees as well, I think. Soon, all too soon, I must retrace my steps and return to the present. As I leave the woods, I pause and turn to look backward, recalling Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." There is no trace of snow here but the woods, like Frost's, are "lovely, dark and deep."
With a sigh I turn once again homeward and pray hopefully that there will be other pathways to follow as refreshing as this one.
JOHN McPHERSON
Searcy