The Older I Get, The Shorter I See

Some days you just walk.
You know
there is a destination. A place to go.
One meant for you
Not yet showing itself.

It is not as simple as picking a point on a map,
and going. You have never traveled
in such a logical way. Instead

you find a road. Preferably one with scenery
and detours, dark corners and unexpected light.
and just walk,
trusting the God of Journeys
to show the way.

If indeed there is a way. A place,
a destination. There are days I question
that premise. Destinations have arrived
and been left behind. Dozens of them,
more.

There were cobblestones and stores.
Unmarked doors. Bells rang. Seagulls screached.
Walk far enough and the tourists disappear
and you are the only one left,
It is your own footsteps you hear in the alleyways.
Let me tell you, you can learn from the sounds
of your shoes in dark places.

The older I get, the shorter I see.
It is the walking I remember.


It is the way
of discovery.
It is the way
of a life worth living.

About this poem

Our trip to Italy was full of lessons relearned. It was good for me in a way the guides never mention.

I spent a lot of time lost in Venice. I never used a map. I wandered a lot. Found things. A lot of them not on the tour books.

I have to tell you, it’s a good way to live.

I often refer to God in my sermons as the God of Second Chances, but he is also the God of Journeys. Thank goodness for both.

And yes, the photograph was taken in Venice.

Tom