We think it's all slow-going. I mean, I certainly do--all this wading and hauling, stopping, catching my breath, then trudging on. That's how it seems some days, many days. I think, though, what we don't realize on those tired, slogging days is that we're moving. We're moving forward and though we may not have the whole map in front of us, we know that this path, at least, is in the right general direction.
When we fight that, when we sit in the muck and stubbornly refuse to move, refuse help, refuse to ask directions, then we slow down all the more. I think we feel good about ourselves, for a few minutes, in that energized burst of protest, of rebellion, of (yes, sometimes) whining.
But all the while we're stopped, our body temperature is dropping, the sun is setting, and our boots are getting filled with muck. There's dry land out there--we know because we've seen it, if only briefly. We also know this path goes there. And, really, isn't it getting just a bit warmer, just a bit clearer? We can only know if we move on.