In the neighborhood where I live, there are several delightful, century-old streets that lead, well, nowhere. Some lanes, adorned with grand homes, are prefaced with an emphatic, “Dead End.” Others, seemingly reflecting their genteel occupants, declare more diplomatically that there is “No Outlet.” Can we agree that both signs mean the same thing? Namely, that there is no through exit from the street.
Indeed, we often use different words to say the same thing, don’t we? The choice of which words we use says more about us than we might imagine. And that choice of words often carries more weight than the mere words themselves.
I came across these boots on the street where I live. A gardener’s boots taken off momentarily, only to be forgotten, then remembered –after it was too late? A pair that had out worn their usefulness, only to be cast aside like the nearby discarded lime halves?
Boots and Lime Halves
What stories rest mute inside these weathered strips of leather? What pain, what joy, truthfulness, and deceit had brought these boots to this moment, this end? Like a writer’s words on a page, these boots carried with them a lifetime of their owner’s experiences, occurrences that had informed every step their owner took–every word the writer wrote.
Which of your life experiences will be revealed–or concealed– in the steps you take today, the words you commit to the page?
