by Chris
For every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction. This is a central tenant of physics, but it is also true of life. For everything gained, there is something lost. This could not be more true of a little road I happened upon while walking home from school one temperate autumn day.
The air was warm and caressing; a gentle breeze circulated the various aromas of nature about the air. Not a cloud in sight, the sky was an immaculate azure. The trees had just begun to turn the proverbial oranges and topazes and crimsons of fall; the Sun was a radiant orb of fairness and warmth: indeed, it was a picturesque autumn afternoon. And because it was such a glorious day, I decided to walk home, that I might imbibe the splendor of the seasonal weather.
Through the desolate corridors of my school I walked, across the empty parking lot I sauntered, and around the various retail outlets and shopping centers I strolled. I was quite pleased with myself; the day was gorgeous and my progression steady. Then I stopped, thwarted by an uncircumventable obstacle: a major thoroughfare. It was rush hour, and the vehicles stretched as far as the eye could see in a tense gridlock. Undaunted, I began to deftly traverse this river of cars, weaving hither and thither, narrowing avoiding finders and skillfully maneuvering about the vehicular chaos.
“Move!” cried one irascible motorist.
“Get out of the way!” commanded another.
Finally I reached the midpoint: a grassy depression several yards wide. On I trudged. Within a matter of seconds, I had reached the other lane, where the oppositely-traveling traffic was, miraculously, much lighter. Yet I quickly discovered another hurdle: the cars were zipping along much too quickly to risk a sprint across. With no alternative, I waited, hoping for a opportunity that finally presented itself after what seemed like an eternity. No hesitation. I bolted across and reached the far side, my heart pounding in my chest like a tribal drum. I continued along the shoulder of the road for about half a kilometer, rhythmically and absentmindedly. Then I noticed it.
It was a little road, partially obscured by a few shops. And though this little road was quite visible, it was still quite difficult to spot, as though it were shrouded in its own inconspicuousness. Nonetheless, it intrigued me; it thwarted my progression as much as the main road had. Inexplicably, and almost unconsciously, I found myself walking toward it, drawn to it by its unassuming demeanor.
It was upwardly inclined, and it formed an acute angle with the main road in the opposite direction of my route. Yet I continued. Then, something utterly amazing happened. After continuing up the road for a time, I found myself immersed in another time, in another place. The road was not merely a road: it was a portal to another world, a world I hardly knew existed.
On the right side of the road, separated by a lethargically flowing stream, a pale green house with red shutters sat in a dusty depression. A red pickup truck slept in the driveway. The weed-infested bridge that crossed the stream was composed of old wooden rectangular blocks which were reminiscent of a Lewis and Clark cabin. Beside the bridge lay three gray slabs of concrete, partly submerged beneath a layer of grass and silt.
As I took in this sight, something dawned on me: the familiar sounds of rush hour traffic were gone, replaced with a tranquility and calmness. Even the air had a barely-noticeable sereneness about it. There was something very relaxing about the quietness, a rare peacefulness that instantly resonated with me.
I pressed on. As I walked I caught site of yet another intriguing view. Situated on a grassy-green hill was a simple dude-style ranch home, tan with red shutters. A swing frame's silhouette contrasted against the now-lowering sun. Perhaps it was the hill, perhaps it was the trees that cast cooling green shadows over the front lawn, but something about that old house reminded me of Mount Vernon.
As I walked, I thought to myself how amazing it was to stumble upon such an untouched landscape so redolent of the country, and how amazing it was to stumble upon it in this little town of all places. I thought about how things had changed, how entire communities had disappeared, how something had been lost.
Back to my right, a chest-high chain-linked fence jealously guarded a yard replete with plant life. Farther back a large pond sat patiently and quietly, a thicket of lily pads shrouding its far shore. Yet my attention was refocused on the fence. It was sufficiently rusted, and the chain that locked the gate had rusted till it turned an assortment of yellows and oranges. It too, had seen its summer come and go. And as I looked closer still, I noticed the plants that grew uncontested around, over, and through the openings in the fence. Suddenly I was inundated with a profound abjectness. What a beautiful yard it must have been; now it was overshadowed and buried by the retail outlets and banks. For everything that is gained, there is something that is lost.
I emerged from my temporary depression to find my feet moving of their own accord: they had never ceased moving. Past the fence, past another house, and past an untended field they carried me. Then I stopped. I stood transfixed by an erect wooden log; many cycles of rain and wind had reduced it to a rotted husk, and several jagged, rusted nails protruded from its frame. I wondered what fence this log had been part of, what objects that fence had surrounded, how precious those objects must have been to merit building a fence. Within seconds I was off again, but I stole a fleeting glimpse of a major retail store off in the distance and I remembered: for everything that is gained, there is something that is lost.
The road turned, and everything turned with it, the low-lying telephone poles, the power lines, the black tire tracks, and finally, me. By now I was completely consumed by the quaintness of my surroundings; a butterfly flew past in a frantic, unpredictable flight path; crickets softly chirped within the impenetrable wild field to my left; a bird merrily tweeted in some far off, unreachable distance. This place I had entered, this living, breathing connection to the past was much more than real estate waiting to be bulldozed and crowned with yet another retail store; it was an enclave of a simpler time.
I walked on, for there was nothing more natural to do. A pair of faded blue jeans lay promiscuously strewn about the road, probably abandoned for a pair of slacks. For everything that is gained, there is something that is lost. And it was here, looking upon a pair of old jeans, on a seldom used road, during a mundane autumn afternoon, that I had an epiphany. I realized, perhaps for the first time, that we-humanity-are assiduously progressing, much as I had been as I walked home. I also discovered that in the celerity of our forward advance, something is lost. Something of such intrinsic value is lost: the past. However, whether by chance or by fate, I had managed to rediscover the past on a lonely road.
We live in a world of towering monoliths, gleaming asphalt roads, and hyper-sophisticated technologies. We are dominated by the speed with which we go about our daily lives, and we are swept up in the forward momentum of humanity. And it is within that forward momentum that we simply forget about the past and all its ordinary pleasures. Consciously or unconsciously, we sacrifice the past so that the future may arrive sooner, not even attempting to balance the preservation of the past with the progression of the present. Yet in the end, regardless of decisions and actions, something must be lost for something to be gained.
