I’ve been spending too much time at my desk lately.  The hellhound’s forlorn glances spurred me into action last week with a long walk across the fields.  I’d planned my circular route, which involved the big dangly carrot of a stop at my favourite countryside café for lunch.  Forty minutes into the walk I hit a snag:  in place of the gate we used to walk through was a gaping ditch, surrounded by tall grass and stingy nettles.  The sign showing the public footpath direction was face down at the bottom of the ditch, as if to say, “don’t ask me, you’re on your own.”

What to do?

I briefly wondered if the sign could be retrieved and used as a bridge, but since I’m pretty wobbly on a balance beam I quickly discounted this idea. We could turn back, but the hellhound and I are very much in agreement on the banality of non-circular walks.  Plus, my lunch.  We walked the perimeter of the field in a fruitless search for another way across.   We returned to the bank of the ditch.  It didn’t look too steep on my side, it was the other side I was worried about.  I couldn’t see any likely footholds, and I was wearing a dress (a sporty dress, but a dress nonetheless).  I imagined the embarrassed phone call to the emergency services, begging to come and pull me out of a ditch, as they surveyed my inappropriate attire and wondered what I was doing in a dress in a ditch in the countryside. 

Luckily for me, sanity took over.  If I couldn’t get up the other side,  I could easily climb back out the way I climbed in, bid a sad farewell to my lunch, and commence the trudge back home.  I let the hellhound loose, because as great as she is at pulling (half husky), this was something I needed to do on my own steam. 

I jumped into the ditch then attacked the far bank, grabbing hold of a root and hauling myself up. Scrabbling for the top, I’d almost made it, I just needed a bit more purchase. My hand reached out for a fistful of the tall grass at the top of the embankment, only to close around something more sinister lurking in the greenery: stingy nettles.  Ouch!  But I was stung now, and I was so close. I ignored the prickly pain and hauled myself up, my legs staying miraculously unscathed, and was rewarded by a wet lick which felt like a, “well done, but what took you so long?” from the hound. 

Onwards 

My stings abated by the end of the next field, and we made it to the café without further incident to enjoy a delicious sandwich, made all the more delectable by my ditch-defying victory (in a dress, no less).

It occurred to me on the walk home that the ditch diving was a good metaphor for life.  Sometimes we meet obstacles, and we know we’re not fully equipped to deal with them. We know finding a way past will be difficult, and that it will hurt.  But sometimes going back isn’t an option.  We can try to go around, but often the only way is through.  We accept the pain as part of the path, and when we haul ourselves out of that ditch, lick our wounds (or the dog does), and carry on, we can feel proud of ourselves for making it (and if we’re very lucky, we can enjoy a tasty sandwich at the end).

What’s your approach when things don’t go to plan? Got any metaphors you’d like to share?

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