Especially when I first move to a new place, finding my way seems to be an insurmountable challenge.
In the war of me vs. the maps, the maps usually win. So a string of three or four errands takes me triple the time. Home to the drycleaners to home to the grocery store to home to the recycling center . . . because I can’t figure out the path from one location to another without going back to home base.
Much of life’s journey is building our own paths. Constructing our own ways, creating our own walkway and driveway.
Paths begin as routes. Routes are simply getting from here to there. Bingo. Donezo. Means to an end.
And as we get familiar, comfortable even, the routes become the paths. We’re noticing things, cherishing things. Celebrating.
Those are the best kinds of paths. When what is new becomes old, and then new all over again.