Footprints in the Snow

I went out for a snowy run partially because I love running in the elements, and partially because I’m a glutton for punishment. The way I see it, the snow and wind just add a little pizazz, making my brain and muscles work slightly differently than normal.

As I huffed and puffed through the first part of the run, trying to acclimate my lungs to the cold air and wind that would sweep in out of nowhere, I found myself questioning my judgement. Really, why was out there running in snow and wind, when I could have been curled up in front of the fireplace with hot cocoa?

Honestly, the answer is not glamorous at all. I was running for two reasons. First, I needed to do something with the energy that was coursing through my body so that I didn’t end up going crazy on my family and push ups seemed like a bad idea. Second, subconsciously I was rationalizing that the run would allow me to feel less guilty about the amount of food that I will likely consume at a party that night.

Totally dumb, but also totally true. So I kept at it – taking whatever crazy reasons I could come up with as motivation to see the run through despite the fact that I was wearing the wrong shoes, that my left sock kept slipping down underneath my foot leaving a lovely little gap for snow to collect, and that the snow felt like cold grains of sand pelting my face.

The further I got into the run, I found the rhythm I was looking for, with the exception of some slips and slides and short strides. I let my thoughts go where they may.

I took in the beauty of the world coated in white. I relished the warmth of my mittens. I breathed deeply knowing that I was one of the few out braving the weather. Then my eyes caught sight of footprints ahead of me.

It was a reminder that, although I felt alone, I wasn’t the only one out and about. There was at least one pair of shoes and several sets of paw prints charging ahead of me. There was comfort in that. I could follow those steps as I neared a street, knowing that the person ahead of me could guide me and help me avoid the drop off of the curb.

As the road curved, the angle of the wind changed and began hitting me from the side. There were drifts on the sidewalk and suddenly the footprints that I’d been following were wiped away. It was as if I was the only person who had traveled this path, today at least. Of course, I knew this wasn’t true. Footprints don’t just stop in the middle of a sidewalk as though the owner of the prints was suddenly abducted by aliens, but it sure felt as though I were alone.

I had to shift my thoughts a bit and pay closer attention to where the sidewalk curved and how it met the street at points. I was braving territory seemingly untraveled. I had to remind myself that even if no one had been there today, I had traveled that path many times before. My body knows where the sidewalk curves. It knows when the climb becomes a downward slope and my stride needs to adjust for slipperiness.

I continued forward, wind blowing me from the side, covering my prints as soon as I lifted each foot. Hiding every trace that I’d been there from anyone who might be following my lead.

The the road and sidewalk curved changing the way that wind hit not only me but the sidewalk where my feet landed. Looking down, I realized that the footprints I’d been following had reappeared. The wind wasn’t hitting at an angle that covered them up. I was back to feeling that the path had been paved for me. I was able to shift my mindset again – paying less attention to each foot placement and more to thoughts that were flitting through my head.

Several times during the run, the footprints I’d been following did their disappearing and reappearing act. I was struck by how these footprints were a metaphor for life.

So often we make decisions and trek onward, using the footprints of those who have gone before us as a guide. Sometimes we confidently place our feet in the same spot, trusting that the owner of the prints knew what they were doing. Other times, we stop, look at the path the prints made, and adjust our course so as not to make the same pitfalls.

Regardless of how we choose to follow, or not follow, the footprints before us, there are times when the path is just swept clean. Suddenly we find ourselves questioning – questioning choices, questioning what to do next. We wonder where the person we’d been following, or not, had gone. We second guess the next placement of our own foot. We have to adjust our stride, leaving room for slips and slides.

We have a few choices at that point. We can stand paralyzed by the unknown. We can turn around and go the way we came. Or we can push forward trusting – trusting in ourselves. Reminding ourselves that our bodies, hearts, and minds know what they’re doing and have navigated uncharted territory before. Trusting that we will not go too far astray.

For me today, being paralyzed and pelted by the wind was not an option. Turning back around seemed pointless. It would have actually made the run longer and there’s not as much adventure in the known.

So I changed my stride, shortening it and lifting my knees a bit higher, adjusting my pace to allow my body to correct for any missteps. When I came to the spot where the footsteps reappeared, there was a sense of relief.

Just as in life, we are often forced to blaze our own trail or trust our instincts, but there are times when the path becomes more clear and we can lean into the idea that someone has led the way before us. There is comfort in seeing those footprints reappear. It doesn’t mean we won’t slip and fall, it just means that there is a guide.

There are times in life that regardless of the clarity of the path, our socks slip, or we have on the wrong shoes, but we always have a choice. We can choose to continue on, eagerly looking for unexpected moments of clarity and ignoring a snowy ankle. We can choose to let small obstacles stop us in our tracks and turn back to safety. There’s not a right or wrong choice, just simply a choice. Some days it may be better to ignore the obstacles and trudge on. Other days it may be better to seek shelter. Either way, we are lucky to have the opportunity to learn from it.

There is much in my life where I feel like I’m blazing a trail, slightly ill equipped with slipping socks or worn out shoes. I find myself setting my feet down tentatively as I test the slipperiness or the depth of the snow. Wondering how I will know if I’m going the right direction. I find that with some faith, I eventually see footprints in the snow – marking the path someone has taken before me. If the footprints are the same, I can rest easy knowing that I’m on the right path. If they suddenly look different, I’m given the option to reassess and decide if I need to change direction, or if, perhaps, I’ve found a new path.