The Path by Doc

The process is king
Memories litter the path and as one trudges along, one picks up some to carry
The yoga of walking is like that of serving a lady
She comes; she walks along awhile; she leaves the road
One remembers her words
Her scent
Her kindness
But above all her discipline.

One serves a woman as one obeys rules of grammar
Or as one submits to the arbitrary but consistent caprices of a foreign language.
It serves no purpose to fight a newly met woman – unique in her many facets.
In command of oneself one chooses to submit to new ways of thinking
New rules of perception.  Hers.
Or one does not….

No matter what, reality remains.
One does not tell a book how to be read.
One reads the book as it is written.
One does not impose one’s will on an exotic language.
One accepts it.

There is a certain joy in never stepping off the path.
Instead one enjoys the constraints and opportunities that one’s progress along a narrow trail entail.
So too submitting to a lady.

Not all women are worth following.
(It’s hard to obey a woman who has no self-awareness; she is like a dandelion.  Blown to bits by a passing breeze, scattered to the winds….)

Still, a few women are awesome
Like trees who have sunk roots into the rocks.
Oaks clinging onto cliffs.
Mesquite – perhaps grizzled and a mess – who earn respect because they are survivors.

One may only rest under such a tree a short time,
But one learns from its existence
One learns from such a woman that walking a path – from past into the dark night ahead – is an adventure.
She shows you the way.
She is the yoga; she is the law.