Left. Right. Left. Right. This step. That step. This step. That step. Rock. Root. Step. Up. Left. Right. Dodge. Jump. Rock. Rock. Left. Right.

The brain is thirsty for order, for the pattern to establish itself, to emerge from the chaos of root and branch. We interpret the incoming stream. We impose order, discard the bits that don’t fit. The pattern breaks, needs to be remade. But we have to have it.

What is it? Are we trying to see the future, racing ahead of the moment, solve the puzzle before it it’s out of the box, before one piece has slipped away, fallen on the carpet? Are we afraid it won’t all go together, and then what?

Then what?

What is your sign? Are you pigeon-toed? Has it rained? Is everything wet? Are you well hydrated? Is the sun too high? These shoes are too tight. I’m overdressed.

Find the connections. Read the stupid tea leaves. There is a message. Isn’t there?

I always get hurt in the fall, when the leaves cover the rocks and the dirt tightens with the first flickers of frost. I fall when my mind is tight, when I’m angry, and I forget to feel the trail beneath my feet.

And what if it’s not there? What if the trail is not linear, if things escalate catastrophically, even if they revert to the mean, eventually? Where can I get the rhythm if it won’t come?

That’s life, not just the trail, not just the stride. Not everything stands clearly in relation to everything else, or else my thinking isn’t as fractally repetitive as I need it to be. I don’t have the equipment. Need to back off. Accept my limitations.

That pattern, in the end, always repeats.