Footprints, Vistas, and Pencil Marks

“The rung of a ladder was never meant to rest upon, but only to hold a man’s foot long enough to enable him to put the other somewhat higher.”
--Thomas Henry Huxley

A year ago today, I started this blog.

It’s strange to think, three hundred and sixty-five days have passed. In some ways, this place still feels so new to me. In others, it feels ancient, timeless, eternal. I could never have foreseen what it would become. It’s my refuge; my cathartic escape. It’s a crossroads. It’s an electronic piece of paper. I found friendship, God, laughter, depth, scope, and peace. Not here—but through here. And I guess, in a way, I found some peace here too.

This journey began small, a single footprint in melting snow. And now it feels like I have traveled further than I’ve ever been, only to end up at the same place. My eyes are new. My passport stamped. I can’t possibly line the shelves of this place—there’s too much that’s come home with me.

I’ve taken snapshots of faces, phrases, words, and places. I feel like I’ve held hands, kissed cheeks, attended funerals, and witnessed birth. I’ve shuffled my feet outside of thresholds and have been welcomed at the cozy fireside. So many people I’ve prayed with, laughed with, cried with, played with.

My voice has been both rant and rave. I’ve sung joyful praise and humble dirge. My height’s been penciled on the wall and what a difference a year has made. Not much taller but grown so tall. I am ever me—and I am changed.

There are footprints beside me, trailing all the way to the beginning. There are newer treads—but no less treasured. If this place has become anything, it has done so from a combined effort. It is not mine alone, but ours together.

Behind me, there’s a winding mountain. The terrain is both jagged and gentle with more footprints in the sand than I ever recognized during the climb. I am filled. I am grateful.

But I am not done.

Ahead, there rises a steeper place. I can’t see beyond this small stretch but for now, the sun is on my face and nothing feels impossible. I have but a moment to rest before I must go on.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there’s some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Thank you, for coming along with me.

With love,

L.T. Elliot