Make a Path
January 28, 2009
First published in the Terrace Standard, January 28th, 2009
Many years ago, when I was still a smoker, I was walking to a newly discovered favourite spot to smoke, when I happened to glance down. With a bit of shock, I realized that the grass I tread had already worn into an obvious trail. It only takes a week to make a path, I thought.
Something in that fact struck me as profound and became part of the resolve I needed to eventually quit smoking for good.
Even more years ago—way back when I was six—I was in a Vancouver doctor’s office, listening to my mom and a doctor try to figure out why was I was waking up at 5:00 a.m. every morning, panicked and disorientated. We had just moved from Smithers, but I seemed to be fitting in fine. I fell asleep okay, then wham! 5:00 hit.
The doctor was in dark about what could be wrong, and suggested that time would cure me. Then as we were leaving, my mom made a casual comment that threw on a light.
“It’s just doesn’t make sense,” she said. “She slept like a rock in Smithers—the racket of the trains never even fazed her. Now we’re—”
The doctor interrupted her. “You lived near a train yard?”
A few more minutes of conversation yielded a conclusion. Apparently there was a daily 5:00 a.m. train. From infancy on, I’d heard its blaring whistle at the exact same time while I slept. They decided its absence was an inaudible alarm clock; the silence woke me up.
My mom’s mind was set at ease, and after a week or two, I slept normally again. I found that story fascinating as a kid, and it intrigues me still. Routine is a powerful thing. Even when it’s unintentional, it becomes set.
A few days ago, I visited Scribo Ergo Sum, my friend Jen Brubacher’s blog. In a funny coincidence, as I had already started this, she had this to say in a recent post: “Writing is about creativity, but it is also about habit. I am trained. I make myself coffee or cocoa, sit at my desk, look at the blinking cursor, and then I start. Well, then I usually start. It isn’t perfect. But it generally gets me where I want to go.
“I’ve just moved to a beautiful house in London, England, with a lot of light and a kettle and coffee maker just begging to make me hot beverages. I have my computer and I have the exact same brain and creativity I had when I left Canada. This means that of course my brain says, ‘Hello, where is my desk? I will not cooperate without my desk. I cannot write while sitting here on this couch. That is ridiculous. Because that is not my habit.’”
Something as simple as desk equals something as complex as a writer’s muse. My friend will adjust, but in the meantime, it will take a bit to get herself primed to where she just sits and the words come.
When I was a kid, I used a wheelbarrow a lot—they’re handy things, wheelbarrows. You can move a lot more wood, a lot more quickly, with one wheelbarrow trip than you can by hand. You can carry everything to the compost all at once. You can fill it with ice and wheel nicely chilled beverages about a party with a lot less effort than it takes to lug a cooler…. You can even give people rides. Yes, the benefits of wheelbarrows are huge.
But have you ever rolled a wheelbarrow over the ground enough times to set a deep groove—and then it rains or the ground swells, or you just plain want to roll somewhere else in the yard? The wheelbarrow suddenly has a mind of its own. It wants its familiar route, no matter what. You can push and pull and shove, to no avail. You will probably have to stop altogether, lift the wheelbarrow out of its comfort zone and start again. Ingrained habits are hard to break.
We humans are creatures of pattern and habit. Of tradition. Of routine. And these patterns we form and adhere to—sometimes unconsciously—can be helpful or harmful. Some result in epiphanies, serve as quirky topics for idle chat, or aid in achieving goals. Others might prevent us from attaining things we want. The trick is being honest about which is what.
If you had plans for changes in 2009, don’t lose determination if you’ve slipped back into a rut. Step out of it and try again. It only takes a week to make a new path.
