# Directions in the Quiet Snow

On December 20, 2025, as the shortest day fades into long nights, I walk a familiar trail blanketed in fresh snow. Footprints from yesterday are gone, erased by wind and weather. Here, "directions.md" feels like more than a name—it's a reminder that guidance isn't carved in stone, but traced lightly in the moment.

## Paths That Vanish

Life's trails often look like this: clear one day, obscured the next. We chase apps and plans, but they falter in fog or storm. I've stood at such forks, map in hand, feeling unmoored. Directions, then, aren't rigid lines on a screen. They're the quiet voice suggesting one step, then another. No grand strategy—just enough to see the next tree or bend.

## Signs in the Everyday

True north hides in small things:
- A friend's offhand advice over coffee.
- The pull of sunlight through bare branches.
- Your own breath, steady amid the swirl.

These aren't commands, but invitations. Like a Markdown note—plain text, no frills—it cuts through noise. Write your directions simply: "Turn left at the oak. Pause for water." They endure because they're honest, born from where you stand.

## Toward Steady Ground

In this solstice hush, I realize direction is motion with heart. Not racing to endpoints, but savoring the print of each boot. Share yours plainly, and others find their way too. The snow will melt, revealing earth beneath—always there, waiting.

*One step reveals the next; trust the trail unfolding.*