walking without a map

in defense of being directionless

My life has barely begun, yet I have lived so much of it. I have made many life-altering decisions, yet not any big enough to alter my life. I’ve walked through many doors, yet none of them truly sit behind me. My feet move forward, yet neither leads the other.

The famous American poet Walt Whitman said it best:

“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

And so, if our very souls are tormented by the heavy burden of making decisions soundly, do we ever truly make any at all?

If my heart beats with blood and my mind drums to its rhythm, who is the true leader between the two?

Which one speaks to my right ear, whispering truth, while the left murmurs doubt?

Which one pushes me forward through open doors, without closing the others I’ve yet to explore?

Which one guides me toward the “right” direction if such a thing even exists?

If there’s no “right” direction, does it matter which way I go?
Should I complete the full circle or aim for the pinnacle?
And if I climb, is the trail a loop, or does it stretch far beyond the horizon?

When the road forks, who takes the first step—my mind or my heart?

To circle back and stand at a still, before I reach the peak, and before I turn around, the world whispers for me to choose a path. A fork in the road lies ahead. My chin lifts, but the peak remains hidden beyond the trees. I look to either side, and the trail disappears beyond my sight. My mind nudges me forward with a gentle whisper, and my heart beats to the rhythm of trust.

As I stand here and express my ineptitude to continue this journey without doubt, fear or concern, I remember when I was a kid walking along the beaten path. I remember climbing my way through trees bigger than I and leaves noisier than laughs. I remember the confidence to jump off the trail with surety to find it once again. I remember the freedom and the trust and the fun and the daring excitement. All until the moon and the stars would threaten the sky and the sun. As the darkness caved around and blanketed the forest, it felt like all of the time I once just held was no longer, all without a timely warning. The pressure to return to the right path and the pressure to return to my safe home would become consuming. The freedom would turn to fear as I thought my decision to step off the right path would become the end for all of them. The freedom of the forest at my fingertips would quickly become the fear of the forest at my fingertips as the night closed in around me.

Does growing older feel like the night is closing in on you, too?

And so if indecision is an affliction of the soul, Sylvia Plath captured it best in her fig tree allegory:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

And so I stand still and watch the fig tree above me sway with each gust of wind. If the figs above me are all the lives I could choose, perhaps the path ahead is not about picking just one, but about trusting that no step is wasted, no direction is wrong. But the shame would only be found in not reaching for any. What a waste of life that would be.

Through my right ear, I hear the leaves rustle to the empty forest full of life.

To my left, the ocean rumbles to echo the depth of its shallow shores.

A fork in the road waits ahead and neither path comes with a warning or a sign. One is well-trodden, the other wild with overgrowth. I hesitate at the crossroads, wondering if the path chooses the traveler or if the traveler must choose the path.

Suddenly the fear is no longer choosing which way to go but to stand still and feel the night close in around me.

Walt Whitman once asked:

“Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?”

And went on to explain,

“Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish?”

And maybe that’s just it.

Purpose doesn’t need to be written in the stars or carved into the earth. Maybe purpose is as simple as the rain falling in April, as small as the glint of mica on a rock. Maybe it’s in the quiet decision to keep walking, even when the way is unclear. Perhaps the path was meant to curve, loop, disappear, reappear like the tide. Perhaps purpose is not a place to arrive, but the steps we take—figs ripening in our hands before we even realize we’ve chosen them.

And so I walk one foot in front of the other. Through doors and past others. Making many decisions, and none at all, all at once.

All as I reach for any fig that wants to be plucked.

There’s no rule saying you must choose just one. If you’re hungry, reach for another.

And if you don’t like this path, step off and onto the other.