Walking in the fog

The storm the night before, and sudden drop in temperature, caused the mountain to be coated in swabs of fog. The scheduled morning hike was going to be more like blind-man’s-bluff than the inspirational communion with nature I intended. Still, I was determined and set off just to be outside, if only to let the fog coat my weary face.

At one point on the journey, I came across a stream. I could hear it more than see it, but the trail eventually lead me to the water’s edge. I could not see the other side, I couldn’t see much of anything except a rock about two feet ahead of me. I put my foot out and took a step. From that rock, I could see another one slightly to my left. Taking a step to that rock, I then saw two others ahead. Step by step, I followed the rocks until I eventually reached the other side. At the time, I did not think much of the experience, but, since then, I have come to realize the rich lesson I was being taught.

I have always been one who loves a view. Whether climbing as high as I could in the trees of a park near my childhood home, or buying a house on the top of a mountain, I love being able to look out and see far beyond me. I can admit, now, that I lived my life always wanting a dramatic view. To look out and imagine what could be fueled my motivation for years and created a self-determination that, in some ways, served me well.

But sometimes the fog settles in and there is no view. Disconcerting, to say the least, it is tempting to stay home and not travel, but the lesson I learned on that hike long ago is that one can still travel when the journey is shrouded in fog. You cannot forge through, walking with the same pace and determination as when your way is clear. You need to slow down and walk mindfully. Instead of looking ahead to some distant point on the horizon, you need to lower your gaze to what may be a rock two feel ahead. In the rooms of recovery, they speak of “doing the next right thing.” To me, that means taking the next step even if it is only a small one, knowing that you are still moving in the right direction. (Five million right steps can get even the slowest walker up Mount Everest.)

Whether on a mountain trail, journeying through the illness or death of a loved one, a lost job, a troubled marriage, or loss of purpose, we are always given a next step. It may only be two feet ahead of us, but if we put enough steps together, we find ourselves on the other side.