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A disused path led downward from the weather station
at the summit of the Great Blue Hill, the highest
point in a 7,000-acre nature preserve in suburban
Boston. I could just see over the pine trees and
scrub oaks below me. It seemed as though just a
few steps forward would lead me to an open vista:
green trees, distant horizon, with a contrasting
background of lowering gray clouds, ragged on the
underside and threatening rain. I looked forward
to this dramatic view of the landscape; at the same
time I was aware of an ominous, muffled hissing
sound.
I went forward and downward, and the path kept
going down, becoming narrower and narrower. I had
to duck my head under some branches. A couple of
them almost scraped my cap off. Once the branches
closed suddenly on my backpack after I had parted
them and passed through them. The low scraping sound,
almost animal-like, made me whirl around: I thought
I was being followed.
Each step forward brought me lower. I would pass
one group of trees that had blocked the view, only
to encounter another group a little farther down
the slope. So the promising view remained just a
promise. The lower I went, the more tantalizing
the promised view became. I glimpsed sky . . . water
. . . distant trees. I chose to ignore the sound
that was floating up through the trees.
Finally the path opened out onto an open space
with some boulders and no line of trees. I scrambled
down to see the vista open up - onto a superhighway
cloverleaf. The water, trees, and sky of the promised
glimpses were there, too. But down in the valley,
too far to walk to but close enough to see and hear,
the scene was dominated by blacktop, heavy traffic,
and the sound of hundreds of hissing tires.
How many times do we keep on a downward path, following
a tantalizing glimpse of good things just beyond
the next barrier? How many times do we choose to
ignore disturbing signs that all is not well? At
each turn the path becomes narrower, rockier, and
more treacherous. We have to bow down at some barriers,
abasing ourselves and losing sight of the promised
prize. Yet still we carry on. It seems that the
more we invest in this arduous path, the more likely
we are to stay on it. And the final prize, when
we reach it, is often just another piece of commerce,
still unreachable but spoiling our view of a better
world.
I sat and rested awhile, trying to enjoy the natural
parts of the vista. Then I turned around and climbed
back up the hill.
Sometimes it can be really hard to know when we're
on the wrong path - when it's time to turn around.
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