Alone, with no external encouragement or assistance, a toddler does something novel. New neuron connections are electric-vibration-ally "made". With repetition, the toddler's memory causes neuron-pathways to become "strengthened". Since this toddler exists in the constantly new moment where every thing is a first thing; they, consequently, spend no time congratulating themself for stumbling their first step or mumbling their first word because they'd intended to walk across the playpen or ask to be taken out of it. So—from their perspective—they failed to accomplish their goal.
Spin that smallish human's odometer.
Everyday becomes every week. Months turn into years of almost or just-barely accomplishing the goal-at-hand while continually doing something novel. On your own. With no direction or help from others. And then you stop. And ponder the 'no instructions' label. Is the reverse side of the label a space for you to scrawl notes to your future self?
Can you recall deciding to explore what the no-path direction had in store for you?
When was your first foray into breaking brush?
How soon did you teach yourself to only advance in a safe, terrain-hugging, instinctual manner?
Where was your punishment training self delivered and self enforced?
What made it become (eventually) self desired and self endorsed?
Who's eventuality caused your inundating disdain tsunami to ripple, falter, and fall apart?
This bench was installed on the side of the path, facing in this direction, by some one (or group of someones) who considered there would be others—future others—who would appreciate a rest at some point during their hike. The bench installer(s) decided this location would be optimal for that. Assuredly, they-themself(ves) once sat here (or still sit here). And. Even if the bench was built by conservation corp students, the benefactor(s) and the builder(s) must-have all sat here, for at least a few relaxing seconds to mentally congratulate themself(ves) on their just-accomplished goal.
A different goal became an accomplishment for you, today, because you successfully climbed walked all the way to this bench without having to stop and catch your breath.
This only feels like an memorable accomplishment from your perspective. To you. Not to the zen-hiker ahead, who's never had one un-synchronized breath go awry. No, not to them. And. Never to the hoard of beyond ear-range delivery-drivers, unaware of their unawareness, streaming along the congested highway far below. That contented multitude never thinks about the motivations of the odd few who catch up to their breath. On a bench. Along a steep path. Out of earshot. Surrounded by birdsong, tree-breeze and slowing heartbeats.
Still. The reverse-side of the manufacturer's no-instructions label, belonging to the aged human with the still-spinning odometer, now bears a few handwritten notes. Cryptic ones (except to yourself).
Countless believe their odometer measures solar or lunar cycles.
Some claim everyone's odometers will keep clicking even after they roll-over.
Many still advocate for traditional ancestral beliefs—that odometers just measure distance travelled—because spacetime is not a concept their ancestors were aware of.
You're pretty certain your odometer measures breaths. Because you've learned to watch it slow. And you've taught yourself to catch it. At times, on a path bench.
