Lessons Written in Gravel

The path dips before I see it.

A hush of trees,

a subtle lean in the horizon—

just enough for my stomach to notice

before my eyes catch up.

I’m only walking,

but the gravel clicks its quiet metronome,

each stone a small parable

about balance and the price of standing still.

I slow without stopping.

The earth beneath me shifts

like a sentence half-finished,

like a truth I’ve rehearsed

but never dared to speak.

Every pebble carries a story:

the argument I should have left behind sooner,

the love that taught me tenderness

is stronger than winning,

the evening I finally forgave myself

for not knowing what came next.

Wind brushes the back of my neck—

a reminder that forward is always

the only honest direction.

Not the arrival.

Not the neat ending.

Just the lean,

the nearly imperceptible slide

where hesitation becomes decision.

My shoes grind against the stones.

They teach with every crunch:

Hold lightly.

Let lessons scuff you but not root you.

Lean with the turn or you’ll topple.

Stillness is only balance

until the hill demands movement.

I breathe the metallic air,

feel my weight settle into the slant.

The path isn’t cruel.

It’s simply telling me

that growth is a downward curve

you can’t unwalk,

that wisdom is the sound

of gravel rearranging beneath each step.

I keep moving.

The world keeps tilting.

And in the quiet between footfalls

I hear the simple sermon:

This is the moment to trust

that you were made to go on.