Underneath the canopy of leaves, yesterday’s rain plunged to the forest floor–each drop a hesitant jumper seeking annihilation in the moldering undergrowth. Ruby’s scarlet hood flared against the gray and umber of the ancient oaks. Her breath burst visible in the chilly air. Ahead in the clearing waited her grandmother’s house, a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney. Today, no sunlight stole through the branches to warm the cottage’s thatched roof. Today, no birdsong filled her ears with the sounds of joy on the wing. Today something different rode the mist, not a scent or a feel, but a voice, perhaps, one that whispered to Ruby of nameless worries and half-remembered dreams. She stepped from the path and up to the door, softly tapping on the age-darkened wood. From within came a rustle and a clatter. Then a voice rough with the morning and disuse called out, “Who’s there?” Ruby lifted the latch and leaned into the room, “Nana Rose, are you okay? You sound…different?” (Inspired by the fairytale “Little Red Riding Hood.”)
My father was a destination guy rather than someone who kicked back and enjoyed the journey. When he traveled, his complete focus was on getting from point A to point B in the least amount of time with the fewest distractions. Eight hours in the back seat as he silently piloted the family sedan out of the rolling hills of central Missouri on our way to the flat cornfields of southern Iowa seemed torture to two little girls given to boredom and motion sickness. On the visits to my brothers’ families, I don’t remember ever stopping to read a commemorative plaque or to take pictures of a scenic overview. Even the tantalizing promises of Hannibal’s significant past never merited a detour. Since his job kept him traveling for 49 weeks out of the year, the last place Dad wanted to be when his vacation rolled around was away from the farm and his own bed and his chair at the head of the table. Everything else was just getting there and getting home.
Dad approached life in the same focused way. He had been born into a world full of wolves. Early on World War I, the Spanish flu and the Great Depression had etched his expectations, leaving him no comfort for living in the moment or letting the future take care of itself. He may have politely listened to the Sunday morning admonitions about the lilies of the field, but in his heart he knew safety and security were not among the gifts of grace. Even lilies tremble when the wolves begin to howl. For my parents and their contemporaries, keeping the wolf from the door meant never straying from the path, never stopping to smell the roses. But as Red Riding Hood learns, monsters can turn up along the most well-trodden paths. It is the enemy within that so often is our downfall.
The biggest challenge in my life is dealing with the wolf in the mirror. And there are days when my inner Red Riding Hood has to use all of her hard-won wisdom to keep from being devoured. When the wolf whispers its disappointment in my apartment, Red remembers that I live in a nice neighborhood and have plenty of room. When the wolf whines about the state of my bank account, Red revels in knowing all of the bills are paid and my paycheck is steady. And when the wolf gasps at the latest age spot or gray hair, Red drags me out the door to walk until I remember that, though my packaging may no longer be factory perfect, all of my moving parts still work. 
In the early days of a new year, I always find myself considering how I will make this year different than those that have gone before. I avoid hard and fast resolutions, but choose instead to embrace fuzzier aspirations such as “laughing more” and “worrying less”. In particular, I like to imagine that somehow Red and I will tame the wolf or at least relocate it to a spot deeper in the forest where its howls will keep me mindful but not anxious. As frightening as it can be, I need the wolf’s focused and slightly glowering presence as much as I need Red’s joie de vivre–for the wolf will get me to my destination, but the girl in the red hood will remind me to appreciate the distractions along the way.
Being Dorothy 