XVIII. Things I Don't Understand: "Up". (Part I)

Two paths fork.

No, split.

No, ache apart.

Actively resent each other.

The directions:

left, dense with maybe.

right, bright with regret.

And I, dutiful pilgrim of the questionable outdoors,

am met with a sign.

And the sign,

solemn, wooden,

utterly sure of its own authority,

points

not left,

not right,

but upward.

↑

Up?

As if I am not already burdened by breath.

As if gravity were negotiable.

As if the soul could hike without the body.

What cruelty,

to give a sign

that says nothing,

and says it

with such conviction.

What arrogance

to assume I’ll decipher it.

To assume I’ll recognize

the symbolic geometry

of trees

and guess correctly

which direction leads

to peace, or berries,

or at the very least, return.

Did I miss the part of the trail guide that said,

“Bring wings or the capacity for spiritual surrender”?

Because I brought trail mix.

And a mild resentment toward incline.

What kind of sociopath installs a sign

that gestures not toward a visible path,

but toward conceptual altitude?

A wooden plaque, nailed to a post,

with a single arrow

gesturing toward the canopy

like salvation is

waiting in the treetops

next to a squirrel with a clipboard.

What does it mean to be pointed upward

by something that cannot follow?

Am I supposed to follow the idea of Up?

Is it metaphorical?

A dare?

The air smells of bark, of wet rock,

of someone else’s confidence.

A woman passes me,

lithe and luminous,

cheeks full of light.

She doesn’t speak—

just points upward,

smiling,

like she knows something.

Like she is something.

(What do you know, light-cheeked stranger?

Did you find the upness to be kind?

Did it greet you with breath?

Did it demand an offering?)

Perhaps the sign was meant for birds.

Or saints.

Or people who bring walking sticks

and know the Latin names for trees.

But I had brought snacks.

And a mortal disposition.

I linger there,

examining bark,

as if tree patterns might suddenly whisper,

“There, love. Go gently. This way leads somewhere.”

The sign says:

↑

as if it’s obvious.

As if Up were not

the most mysterious word in the language.

I squint. I ask.

The trees do not respond.

So I remain,

mildly ashamed,

a person abandoned by logic,

negotiating with a plank of wood

nailed to another plank of wood

that thinks it’s qualified to assign direction.

I consider climbing a tree.

I consider building a new sign

that says, “No, really—where?”

No. Just:

“Where.” Period.

I wonder if the sign

had ever pointed elsewhere.

If it had once been young.

Uncertain.

Rotating freely in the wind.

But now,

now it is sure.

And I?

I am not.

Instead, I’m left with this:

a sign that points Up.

As if I’m meant to follow a direction

that is not a direction,

but an impulse.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe the trail was never about getting anywhere.

Maybe it’s about surrender.

To marvel without mastery.

To kneel at the altar

of confusion

and find it holy.

To realize that wonder

does not require clarity.

That not knowing

might be its own kind of reverence.

That stillness, too,

can be a path—

not away,

but inward.

...

Or maybe

the guy who installed the sign

was just lazy.

Didn’t want to cut a proper path.

Said “up”

and went home.

Still—

the path behind me dissolves

like a dream I forgot to write down.

The ones beside me

snarl with noise and memory.

So I walk.

Not up.

Not sure.

But forward.

Trail mix in hand.

Questions intact.

Not because I know,

but because standing still

feels like agreeing with the sign.

And I refuse

to be spiritually bullied

by punctuation.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.