Walking

THERE’S A MOMENT in most work lives where we find ourselves in a place that no longer fits. Maybe we worked really hard to get here, climbing up ravines, hacking our way through thick forests, a clear idea of where we would arrive once we made it through this difficult passage. But when we got here it wasn’t at all what we thought it would be. Or maybe we wandered this way, not quite knowing where we were going, always taking the most welcoming path, following that stream or those people. But now that we’re here, it doesn’t seem like a good place to linger. Then we may feel surprise or confusion, or perhaps shame at not having made better choices. Maybe we were pushed this way, and we seethe in resentment. Always there is fear.

However we got here, we’re here, on the edge of this cliff, a rock face behind us, looking out over a valley we cannot reach. It’s a long way down, and we don’t have a rope or a net. And we can’t know what’s down there anyway. From up here, it looks like green pastures and shady forests. But we know, now, that the world is full of mirages, that light and shadow can trick the eye and heart. That what looks like a welcoming grove can just as easily turn out to be haunted.

These are moments when we begin to realize that we may have to make a big change—leave an industry, change careers, turn back or turn off the path we’ve been on. And what I’ve noticed is that those moments always seem, in retrospect, to have been foreshadowed. Somewhere back on the path that got us here we started to see the signs—the people we were walking with turned out to be competitors instead of comrades, or the weather seemed always to be beating us back, or we couldn’t stop thinking about that spur we passed by, wondering where it might have taken us. The realization arrives as something we already know, a stone that’s been in our shoe for a while and which we’re only now plucking out and taking a good long look at.

So: take a look. Sit down and really look at this place where you find yourself. Look at it as if you just got here, because in some way you have—you are seeing it anew, as someone who now realizes they cannot stay. Take stock of the local flora and fauna, the topography, the residents. Notice the other visitors, the folks who carry their bags on their shoulders, as if ready to leave; some of them might turn out to be good traveling companions. Nose around the different camps, see what’s happening, what’s changing, what people are preparing for. Ask a lot of questions of the people you encounter, and listen closely to what they have to say.

When you become someone who is contemplating moving on, the place you’re in changes. You become a pebble in its shoe, a sign that some change is underway, a portent of more to come. Alone, you may be nothing more than an irritant, but an irritant in a vulnerable place can play both havoc and peace. Join with others, and the pebble becomes a rock slide, a boulder, a cairn that shows the way to another path, a trail that leads you-know-not-where, but certainly away from here.

Even the steepest cliff has a hidden footpath or two; even the sharpest rock face contains crevices, caves, handholds. You might have to hunt around for them; you might have to venture down a few dead ends to find them. You may have to unburden yourself before you can fit through. But they’re there, ready and waiting. And the fear is there, too, of course, a messenger urging you to be careful where you place your feet, to keep a grip on your walking stick. Fear, too, is a good traveling companion on journeys such as these; it keeps you sharp and attentive, aware of all the opportunities and pitfalls that surround you. But don’t let it keep you from walking.