Colby Hewitt Lane

Colby Hewitt Lane is a small little road off of Careswell Street (Route 139), a busy main road in my town. I pass by the lane usually twice a day--to and from work--and often even more. I have passed byit for years, probably thousands of times by now. Yet, never, have I, never--whether by foot, bike, rollerblade, or car--turned onto Colby Hewitt Lane to see what's on it. Over time, I became so aware of the fact I'd never been on the lane and made a conscious choice not to take it, just as a game testing my resistance against my urge to see it. Now, I'm almost oddly afraid of exploring it; I'm afraid that I've set the lane up in my mind so strongly that it would disappoint me. In life, I think we all have our Colby Hewitt Lanes. We all have roads that are before us that we don't see, we chose not to take, or that we fear exploring.

Many of the paths so plainly available to us are left unnoticed amidst the frantic blur of striving so strongly toward one destination. My family has a lakeside cottage about forty-five minutes away that I have visited almost once a week my entire life; I even lived there for seven months. In the course of a forty-five minute back road drive, countless small streets are driven past, streets like Crooked Lane in Lakeville, Massachusetts. It wasn't until last Sunday night that I even noticed the existence of Crooked Lane. When I turned onto it to explore, I discovered a beautiful rural enclave in the midst of suburban sprawl. Crooked Lane was one of the most beautiful roads, narrow and windy and occasionally dirt, that I'd ever seen in my part of the state. Yet, in the process of seventeen years, I never noticed the existence of the lane. When I finally began looking for alternatives, I discovered my favourite path.

Sometimes we know of other ways of reaching our destination, yet are so blindly content with our present strategies that we don't bother to ever try the other road. In order to go to Québec, I adored taking Interstate 93 all the way to its end in Northern Vermont. Interstate 93 weaves through towering downtown Boston, through New Hampshire's White Mountain National Forest, under massive cliffs, past the famous Old Man in the Mountain, through the birthtown of statesman Daniel Webster, and near the Robert Frost Museum. It is simply a beautiful and exciting drive. So beautiful that the idea that there were other beautiful ways to get to the same destination seemed entirely unappealing. Finally, in my last trip to Montréal, I tried taking Interstate 89 through Vermont, to go home. I went through rolling hills and pastures. I enjoyed spectacular views of Lake Champlain, home to many of the naval battles that would define both Canadian and American history.

I saw the birthplace of Joseph Smith, one of the greatest influences of my life. I enjoyed high views over the Connecticut River Valley that inspired much of Frost's greatest poetry. I saw the prestigious Dartmouth College that statesman Daniel Webster fought to save. And while Route 89 may or may not be better than 93, the simple act of changing my path once opened so many new things to me that I never would have seen if I remained complacently satisfied.

A myriad of roads meet at all the uncounted junctions we pass in any given day. There are roads unseen, untravelled, and fearful. But, closed eyes miss the brilliant colour, still feet don't feel new things between their toes, and timid travelers don't travel far. Every neighbourhood has a Colby Hewitt Lane, and I am going to explore mine with wide-eyes, bare feet, and enthusiasm.