We slogged along, we did. The mob of us, through the mud and the slush and the ice and the snow. Not snow like I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Snow like you find in the gutter six days later. Mud that sticks to your shoes and then your pants and then your shirt. And slush and grime. The kind of grime that starts on the outside, but ends up on the inside. In your eyes and mouth. Then in your throat. And finally, you’re pretty sure, the grime is coating the inside of your soul.
I kept my eyes down, because I didn’t need to look up. I knew the path. I’d been around this way hundreds of times. I watched the muddy boots in front of me as they sloshed loudly into that same hidden rut, followed by the same listless profanity. And then I stumbled on the same rock as a dozen times before. Curses!
When I did look up, I saw the same dingy, hunched over forms doing the same shapeless shuffle as yesterday and yester-week and yester-month. Every turn in the path promised something new, and every turn in the path delivered more dull sameness.
The occasional mirage of apparent festivity would come and go, but nothing changed. We trudged through the lights and the food and the façade of fun, feeling only more downcast by what we couldn’t experience. Any attempt to linger was quickly overruled by the endless marching horde behind.
And now, we see less sun every day. More night. More cold. Yet the pace quickens. Why? We see lights. We hear music. We sense excitement. It’s by far the grandest celebration we have seen. We rush towards it, falling and running over each other in a chaotic attempt to get there, to finally rest instead of strive. And then we’re there. And then it’s gone. Alas, it’s gone.
We’re off our pace now. Unfamiliar forms in front, unfamiliar ruts. We seem suddenly to have no place to go. But in the bewildered shuffling, I find the crowd spreading out. The path is wider. Still mud and slush and grime. But in between the figures before me, I see bits of fresh snow, untouched by muddy boots. I look to the left, and I look to the right, and I see, we’re all side by side. Everybody’s at the front of the line. We’re approaching the mountaintop together. It becomes a march, stepping as one through the muck and the mire.
We’re counting steps now, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. And then: 10, 9, 8… in unison, 7, 6, 5, we can feel it, 4…3…2…1 – and we’re struck silent, standing breathless in awe at the sight before us.
It’s magnificent, as far as the eye can see, miles of pure, glistening white snow. Not a footprint to be seen. Not a splatter of mud. Just sparkling clean snow, waiting for the first footprint. Trees glitter and glorious sunlight shimmers off a crystal clear lake. Unbroken snow beckons: Make your own path.
So the light ahead becomes the light within. It cleanses from my soul all the grime of the past. It’s a new day. It’s a new year. If I choose, it’s a new life.
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