The Wandering- Introduction To A Modern Allegory
I was walking along an old hay field in winter, approaching a steep hill covered in deep snow. The temperature was in the mid-twenties Fahrenheit, and the air was crisp and smelling clean. I reached the bottom of the hill and decided to climb the hill rather than continue to the right and stay in the field. Travelers before me had trampled the snow down to just a couple of inches, so it was a climb. Once at the top, I looked down to the other side, flattened hay and snow lay before me. It was like a patchwork quilt, like God dropped dollops of snow round about. I continued down feeling the crunch of the frozen old hay that previous travelers had not yet trodden, until I reached an old worn gray barn. There was a window, so dirty, that I couldn’t see inside. An old wooden door with black hinges and an old-fashioned handle was just to my right. I knocked but no one answered. I shyly tried the door, it opened. Looking inside I sensed it was a makeshift apartment. It had an abandoned look; a couch and a homemade coffee table were in front of me, to my left, a small pine end table. Glasses and plates, soda cans and used napkins lay strewn about the tables. There was an acrid smell of old garbage left behind. I walked around the end table and to the left and I saw a white Frigidaire refrigerator, I could hear the hum of its motor. I found myself calling “Mary?” What is wrong with me? I do not know a Mary, so I do not know why I called that name. I looked around and listened, but there was no one.
I left and walked around the building and noticed an opening in the barn where a roll away door used to be. Remnants of the iron runners were left behind. The room held an old tractor, reminiscent of those from the 1930s. It wore the remains of an old red paint job. I walked in and past it and surprisingly found myself in a modern looking sunroom. It contained couches, better described as divans. A row of them at the back of the room and a row at the front. The divans upholstery bloomed with spring flower patterns. With the sun on them, I could smell the scent of warm plastic. There was a piano sitting at a right angle to the front row of divans. It was a light gray color with a cover over the keys. There were glass windows all around the outer perimeter of the room. My mind struggled to understand how the apartment, the sunroom, and the barn with the tractor all were connected. I went back outside wondering what to do, I tried the apartment again, but no one was inside. I came back to the tractor and stood beside it; I could smell tractor grease, old hay, and mud. To my right was a jumble of discarded items, a pickaxe, an old tin milk can, a hub cap that reminded me of one my dad had from a 1950s ford coupe. There was a wooden rung ladder lying askew against the wall, clearly used for climbing to the empty hay loft above.
I decided to go into the sunroom again and when I entered, I realized that even though the room sported floor to ceiling windows, I could not look out. It was if gravity were forcing my head down, I could not seem to lift it high enough to look out the windows. My gaze shifted left, past the piano, as I walked with my head bowed along the gray cement aisle flanked by divans. I suddenly felt extremely exhausted as if the humidity was one hundred percent. It was difficult to breathe; every step was like trudging through four feet of snow. I finally reached the end, and I was able to lift my head just enough to see that the windows were covered in white blinds. I managed to turn my head enough to the right to see the strings that I was sure would open the blinds. My hand and arm felt like a hundred pounds, but I finally was able to reach for the string and slide my fingers down to the small caps at the end. I pulled and the blinds moved sideways rather than up and down. To my consternation, all that was in front of me was the old gray barn, my best guess ascertained it to be the back end of the apartment.
I forced myself to walk towards the front, past the divans, and to the windows that covered the whole front of the room. It seemed as if I was moving more easily now, I found the string and opened the blinds to the first set of windows. Sunlight streamed in and against the bright white snow my eyes became blind. I closed my eyes and waited for them to get accustomed to the bright light. Opening them was like forcing myself from a deep sleep, it was painfully sluggish. But there it was, the most beautiful vista! I was looking down at a snow-covered hill that rolled into a valley and on the other side, a breath-taking mountain of snow laden pines. There was a patio door to my left, I took it outside. The fresh air refreshed me as I scanned the area before me. Below the pines was a cabin with smoke pouring out of its chimney. Even at this distance the smoke lingered in the air up here and I could tell it was Cherry wood. Such a pleasant smell. But alas, I knew the cabin spelled danger. Why I knew that I was not sure, it was just a feeling, a sense of foreboding. My next decision was whether I should continue down towards that cabin or go back the way I came. But why go back? And why did I come? Where did my journey start? Nothing was clear in my head, it seemed more like a dream I was trying to remember rather than actual life. I glanced again at the cabin and figured the smoke indicated there was someone there or nearby. Maybe someone could help me figure things out? I decided to continue to the cabin.
The snow was thick on this side of the hill; it reached my knees. There was no path to follow, no one had gone this way before. Though it was downhill, the going was rough. Though the sun shone brightly, it was very cold. I guessed it was still somewhere near twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It was a good hour before I reached the outskirts of the cabin. I was certainly at the back of the cabin because a fence surrounded it and there was not a way inside. Firewood was stacked just inside the fence covered with a four by six slab of wood to keep the snow off. Down here below the pines gave me a sense of how small I was in this environment and the foreboding I felt earlier was back. By this time, my legs were wobbly from exhaustion, and my only choice was to continue and find the front door. I desperately needed to get a drink and sit for a spell. Around the corner I found an opening to the fence and climbed up on the deck, four feet away was a door. I proceeded to it and knocked, although I wore gloves, my hands felt like a ball of ice. One knock was enough; a giant of a man stood before me in the open door. He was at least six foot five or better. He wore a brown Tyrolean hat and a Garibaldi beard. His clothes were simple, a button-down tan shirt, brown suspenders, blue jeans, and black work boots. I must have been a sight to see because he took a long look at me from my boots up to my hat before saying anything. I followed his gaze with my own eyes and saw that my boots and jeans were frozen over in snow and ice up to my knees. Although the rest of me was dry, I am sure my face registered exhaustion. He bellowed out in a deep voice, “Please come in, I think you could use some time before the fire if you’re going to dry those pants. ”I followed him in and found my voice, “Sorry to bother you, my name is Trevor, and I am lost. You are right, I need to get myself dry before moving on. I thank you for your kindness.” As I scanned my surroundings, I found the cabin to be incredibly warm, maybe because I was so cold. A large fireplace was directly in front of us, and the flames were at their peak, casting their light of warmth and comfort on all the nearest log beams. A Victorian style couch sat in front of it, with matching chairs on either side. He motioned me to proceed to the couch. I looked down at my wet boots, uncertain if it was polite to walk across his hardwood floors with them on. “Don’t worry about your boots, come in and sit down.” I was happy to comply and when attempting to sit I realized just how cold and stiff my muscles were. As I sat, I could also feel how stiff my jeans were below my knees, stiff with ice and snow. He spoke again, startling me, “Settle yourself in, I will go to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. I am sure you must be up for a cuppa?” He did not wait for my response but went off to the right where the kitchen lay. The open floor plan for the living room and kitchen made it possible for me to watch him as he prepared the kettle. The fireplace gave off enormous heat and in just these few minutes I could feel my jeans loosening as the snow and ice melted from them. My host soon came around with two cups of tea on a tray. Pausing in front of me, he indicated I should take one, I did. He settled into the armchair to my right, placing the tray on a rustic end table to his right.
“Nothing like a good cuppa on a chilly day like today. What in heaven’s name brought you out here? My cabin is quite secluded from the Village below. Did you get lost looking for the Village?”
I was not sure what to say but figured the truth is always the best route. “Sir, I do not rightly know how I got here. I suddenly found myself walking this path below a hill, wondering which way to go. I am not certain how I got there or where I came from. It is like I am in the middle of a dream. Well, maybe I am, and you are in it too?” A deep burst of laughter rolled out of the big man’s throat; its baritone rattled my rib cage.
“Broderick’s my name lad, and I am not a dream. I come from sturdy stock in Wales, thank you. But we are not in Wales lad, we are in upstate New York on the Tug Hill plateau. The Village I mentioned is Brantingham, it is the closest one to my cabin. You young ones are always getting mixed up in some drug you do not know anything about; I am sure you will come around after it wears off.”
He was not being helpful at all, “I cannot be sure, but I do not feel like I am that kind of fellow. I know my name; I can picture my Mom and Dad and the house I grew up in; but for the life of me I cannot remember where it is. Could I be the youngest case of Alzheimer’s?”
Broderick set his cup back on the tray and turned fully to me, “You will not get any answers here; you best make your way down to Brantingham and see if anyone there recognizes you. But first you must eat and finish drying those pants.” Broderick took my cup and placed it back on the tray with his, “Come on to the kitchen.” I had not realized what time it was until the clock above his chimney cuckooed it was noon. He led me to an antique Victorian English pine table in the kitchen. I passed by the stove and peeked at a beef soup simmering in a large black pot. Large chunks of beef, potato, and carrot bubbled in swirls of broth. I sat at the table while he placed the teacups down on the table and turned to ladle the soup into bowls. He used oven mitts to bring the bowls over to the table; hot it was. We both ate heartily. As I scooped a large chunk of beef in my spoon, my grandmother flashed before my eyes. I saw myself at her kitchen table eating a similar bowl of beef soup. She was telling me “Trevor, if you do nothing else, you must always remember and never forget to place the Lord first in your life.” Seeing my grandmother again, erupted feelings of longing in my chest. She was gone as quickly as the flash that brought her to my memory. I finished my soup and thanked Broderick for his generosity. My jeans and boots were completely dry now, so I indicated it was time for me to move on. Broderick nodded and cleared the table. He turned from the sink and wished me well as I thanked him for his help and headed for the door. On the outer deck he pointed to the path that would take me down to the Village. “Stop in at Brantingham Station, it is a nice little General Store. The proprietor is a friend of mine, his name is George, tell him I sent you and give him your story. He will be happy to help.”
The path continued downhill from my previous excursion, but it had seen travelers before me. Likely Broderick used it to go to the village or villagers climbed it to visit Broderick. There was less snow this far down, the sun facing fully on it must have helped. Twenty minutes into my hike I finally could see the village. Fields of corn stover lay on either side of me, before me there were a handful of buildings, possibly Brantingham Station amongst them. Snowy pines swaddled this scene, and instead of the earlier foreboding I felt a quickening, my heart stirring up an energy I had not felt before. I pick up my pace, anxious to find help for my dilemma. Closer now, I can see there are several commercial buildings placed haphazardly in and around a handful of houses. The houses seemed to be competing for color; one blue, one green, one red. A white with black trim church stood at the far end of the village; it had a small stout steeple but no cross. Then I saw it, Brantingham Station. It stood at an angle, so it was hard to see the sign but yes, it said Brantingham Station in big black letters. The building was made of pine logs and was well kept. I reached the entrance and did not hesitate to go in. The pine log cabin theme continued inside, the place was spacious and well stocked with grocery items. A surprise to me was a dining area right smack in the middle of everything. A kitchenette close by hung a white board with Breakfast Lunch and Dinner specials. A middle-aged gentleman came around from behind it and asked me if I needed help. He wore green dickies and a well-worn black sweatshirt under a white apron. “Yes, I am looking for George, Broderick sent me,” was my reply. “I’m George, what can I do for you?” I gave him my story and asked if he might know me or recognize my name. All I could give him was my first name, I could not recall my last name. “Sorry Trevor, you do not look familiar, I have not seen you around here before. Our best bet is to call 911 and get some help from the authorities.” “I would appreciate that sir, I don’t have a phone on me.” George placed the call, and I sat in the dining area waiting for the authorities. George let me know it could be a while before they arrived, considering how remote we were. I was thankful that everyone was amiable and accommodating but, in my waiting, I began to feel anxious and jittery. I wanted answers but every muscle in my body was screaming “run!” George had gone back behind the counter of the kitchenette when the bell on the front door rang signaling there were customers coming in. They were rough looking, the two of them, dirty jeans and t-shirts that might have started out white but were now closer to brown, misshapen with holes under the armpits. The one fellow was tall, maybe six foot two inches, bald, a strong square face covered in a bushy beard two feet long. The other was shorter, maybe five foot six inches, brown unkept stringy hair down to his shoulders, sharp triangular cheekbones and a two-day growth of beard that wasn’t as becoming as he might have thought. As they sauntered past me, they gave me looks that encouraged me and my muscles to run. Once they were a safe distance from me, I got up and went out the door. Where to from here? I did not have a clue but at least I knew there was a road that came in from somewhere so it must also go out to somewhere. There was a green chevy truck parked just outside the door, I figured it must belong to those two fellows because it was not there when I went in. If I take the road, I better be ready to duck somewhere if they come driving by. There is also the police who will eventually get here to help me and find I am gone. What will they think of that? My irresistible urge to run made me ponder who exactly I was and was I in some kind of trouble with the law? I must continue; I must keep going. Maybe things will start coming back to me as I go on.
The road was clear of traffic, so I started out walking on the left side of the road. Both sides were tree lined, offering plenty of cover if needed. I judged it to be about two in the afternoon considering my time at Brantingham Station. The sky was turning ugly, black clouds were rolling in from far off like burnt marshmallows sliding off a stick. I picked up my pace sensing a need to get somewhere fast, just uncertain where that place was going to be. It was easy going, the road had been plowed some time ago and was basically clear down to the pavement. The first couple miles were uneventful, while I continued to eye the sky fearing an impending storm. The air was clear and cool and really made for a nice walk. My boots were comfortable, which made me take stock of how I was dressed. Nike Men’s Manoa Leather hiking boots, Tommy Bahama Men’s Sand Drifter Authentic Fit Jeans, a black adidas t-shirt and a black North Face Parka. My family and I were apparently well off. I was coming to a curve in the road and saw a vehicle approaching. I wasn’t fast enough on my feet to run for cover, but it didn’t matter, the car was the State Trooper who most likely was following up on the 911 call from Brantingham Station. It sped by me without another thought. I looked around for some avenue of escape because the trooper car was sure to come back once they found out I had fled. I could see about two hundred feet ahead of me what looked like a driveway cutting through the tree line on the right-hand side of the road. I decided to investigate it. At the entrance I looked up its path as far as I could see, there was nothing. Ok, I thought, let’s take it and see where it leads. It was a gradual incline heading back up the same hillside Broderick’s cabin was on only it was several miles west of him. Looking up ahead I thought I could see what would be considered farmland. Although it lay fallow, you could tell it was an active field. I trudged along for what seemed like an hour but was probably a quarter of that. The way was steeper now and my heart rate had risen considerably. Almost to the crest, just a few more steps. There it was, just over the crest, a beautiful hacienda! Using the word hacienda in my mind sounded foreign to me and yet it rolled off my tongue like a familiar thing. What? Am I from South America?
Foreign or not, there it was. A sprawling Spanish Colonial white hacienda with six white colonnades towering over exquisite designer cement flooring. I could only imagine what was inside. There was a grey x5 BMW in the driveway, clearly, someone was home. I didn’t feel any foreboding, so I saw no drawback in inquiring into it further. I made my way to the front door, noticing the security cameras all around. I hardly needed to ring the bell, but courtesy demanded that I should. I pushed the black button encased in a gold designer wall plate. While I waited for someone to open the door, I turned to look at the sky. The melting burnt marshmallows had turned to one big tempest of black, the air felt like it had dropped ten degrees in temperature. The creak of the door opening turned my attention back around. A tall gentleman in black slacks, shirt and suit coat had opened the door. He said to my surprise, “Hello sir, Mary has been expecting you. Please come in.” There it was again, Mary, I didn’t know a Mary. I stepped inside and entered a foyer opening to a stairway that spiraled to the left as it climbed to the next floor. White and black were the contrasting colors throughout and the gentleman in black walked me to an elegant room with an inlaid marble round table and chairs below a candle style Chandelier. French doors were off to the right side and to the left were two white arches leading to another stairway climbing its way to the second floor. Beyond the round table was a white couch set in front of a lit and roaring fireplace. I was motioned by my black attired gentleman to take a seat on the couch. I complied.
She came from the archway, tall, thin, majestic, in a white satin V-neck suit. All I could think of was that Cher had just appeared before my very eyes. But it wasn’t Cher. She introduced herself. “Hi Trevor, I’m Mary and I’m so glad you found your way to me.” I could barely get the words out but managed a weak, “Hi.” She laughed, not a deprecating laugh, but a soft amused kind. “You’re wondering what I mean by that statement, aren’t you?
I found my nerve to reply, “Yes, I only stumbled onto this property not knowing where it was taking me. How could you be expecting me? And why earlier did I seem to be looking for a Mary, when I do not even know a Mary? I’m so confused; is this a dream or am I drugged? Please explain!
“Relax Trevor, you’re not dreaming or on drugs. There has been a series of missteps that you got involved in, that caused you to be concussed; when you woke, unaware by us, you wandered off. I was sure you would eventually find your way back here.”
Her words confused me even more, “I’m sorry, I’m totally perplexed. I am not aware of anything you are alluding to.”
“I think that will be the order of the day for you until you get your memory back. Some things are best left unsaid until you do. We have a room prepared for you and have a Doctor on call waiting to look you over to see what we might be able to do to speed up your memory. Please let Charles show you your room, you will have all the necessary amenities for you to get refreshed. Theresa will bring you a plate of food while we wait for the Doctor to arrive. Please relax and let things move along at their own pace. Trust me, it will all eventually make sense.”
The gentleman in black, apparently named Charles, materialized behind me, scaring me up to my feet. “Follow me sir.” I could do nothing more than comply; my host Mary conjured an air of authority that I didn’t feel appropriate to defy.
Navigating Identity and Belonging in the Age of Digital Transformation
Imagine stepping into a snowy field, the air crisp and unfamiliar, your path uncertain and your purpose unclear. Each step crunches beneath your boots as you move forward, not knowing what you’ll find beyond the next hill or behind the next door. You call out a name—Mary—though you don’t know why, and each encounter along the way leaves you with more questions than answers. This wandering, at once bewildering and beautiful, is not just the journey of a lone traveler in a winter landscape; it is the journey we all undertake as we navigate identity and belonging in today’s digital world.
In the digital age, our fields are not made of hay and snow, but of profiles, posts, and messages. We set out each day into these virtual landscapes, sometimes with purpose, often with uncertainty. Like the traveler in The Wandering, we find ourselves drawn toward new spaces—some familiar, some strange—hoping to find warmth, recognition, or simply a sense of place.
We might enter a bustling social network, its surface trampled by countless others before us, the paths well-worn but the destination unclear. Or we might stumble into a quiet online forum, a digital barn with dusty corners and forgotten conversations, peering through the window of a new community, unsure if we belong inside. Sometimes, we knock and are welcomed; other times, we find only silence and the lingering scent of conversations long past.
As we wander, we encounter rooms filled with light—sunrooms of opportunity, where the promise of connection glows behind glass. Yet, just as the protagonist struggles to lift their gaze and see beyond the blinds, we too can find it difficult to look past the surface of digital interactions. The endless scroll, the curated highlight reels, the pressure to present a perfect self—all can weigh us down, making it hard to see the real people and stories behind the screens.
Sometimes, exhaustion sets in. The effort to keep up, to be seen, to belong, can feel like trudging through deep snow. But with persistence, we may find a way to open the blinds, letting in the sunlight of genuine connection and glimpsing the wider landscape of community and possibility.
On this journey, we are not always alone. Like the traveler welcomed into Broderick’s cabin, we may find mentors, friends, or even strangers who offer warmth and guidance. A kind message, a helpful comment, a shared story—these are the digital equivalents of a hot cup of tea by the fire. They remind us that, even in unfamiliar territory, there are those willing to help us find our way.
Yet not every encounter is comforting. There are moments of anxiety when the presence of strangers or the uncertainty of our own place in the digital world makes us want to run. The risks of exposure, misunderstanding, or even harm are real, and the urge to retreat is strong. Still, the journey continues, propelled by the hope that somewhere ahead lies understanding and belonging.
As the story unfolds, the traveler’s path leads to moments of revelation and rest. Meeting Mary, learning the cause of confusion, and being encouraged to recover—these are metaphors for the process of self-discovery in the digital age. Sometimes, we must pause, reflect, and accept help before we can move forward. In these moments, vulnerability becomes a source of strength, and patience a guide through the fog of uncertainty.
I have felt this wandering myself. There have been times when I’ve joined a new online community, unsure of my place or whether my voice would be heard. I’ve scrolled through feeds, searching for connection, sometimes feeling invisible among the crowd. There were moments when a simple message from a stranger—a word of encouragement, a shared experience—made all the difference, reminding me that I was not alone in my journey.
I’ve also faced the exhaustion of trying to keep up, the pressure to present a polished version of myself, and the anxiety of not knowing if I truly belonged. But with time, I learned to open the blinds, to let in the light of authentic interaction, and to seek out spaces where I could be myself. The digital landscape is vast and sometimes bewildering, but it is also filled with opportunities for growth, friendship, and self-discovery.
Ultimately, the wandering is not aimless. Each step, each encounter, each challenge faced along the way shapes our sense of self and our place in the world. The digital landscape, with all its bewildering twists and turns, offers both obstacles and opportunities for connection. By embracing the journey—with its confusion, its beauty, and its promise—we can find meaning and belonging, even in the most unfamiliar of fields.
