peevish mama

I am absolutely besotted with this concept. Coined by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard, it loosely translates to pathways of desire. It’s the worn paths of hard packed dirt that naturally occur when people repeatedly find the most compelling (or shortest) way to get from point A to point B.

Do you remember? Do you remember all the paths of desire on your old schoolyard? The well loved artery from the merry-go-round, where you’d spin and spin until you felt sick, to the small clearing at the edge of the woods where you could lie in the leaves and squint through your lashes at sky and an impossible tangle of black branches? It’s the path a child is likely to take, or a dog.

Sometimes, the shortest, most logical route is stamped in concrete and we know nothing of a path of desire. And sometimes, the concrete does not suffice and our feet are impelled to cut through, veer off, bisect swaths of land, following an intangible rationale not accessible to city planners and engineers. It’s just so romantic. It’s the intersection of geometry and emotion – like frown lines, laugh lines.

Right now, with the snow covering all the sidewalks and paths, there are chemins du désir everywhere. Down by the creek in front of our house, the snow is padded down in patterns that don’t match up to the cement walks I know to be underneath. Come spring, we well-behaved Minnesotans will take to the pavement and forget all about the blanket of snow that innocently gave us the freedom to follow our heart’s desire.

For a poetic exploration of les chemins du désir in the beleaguered city of Detroit, check out this post over at Sweet Juniper.