Lost
A native American Elder was asked,
“What shall we do if we get lost?”
Stand still. The trees before you and the bushes beside you are not lost.
Wherever you are is a place called here,
and you must treat it as a powerful stranger
both asking to know and be known.
Listen. The forest whispers,
“I have made this place, you can leave and return once again
saying, here.”
No two trees are the same to Raven,
no two branches the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a branch does is lost on you,
you are truly lost.
Stand still. Listen.
The forest knows where you are.
Let it find you.
– Arrangement by David Wagoner
Today I tried to describe it to a friend in a phone call, “You know,” I said, “how hard it is to imagine anyone else’s life? Well, whenever I get back from a trip of any length, it’s my own life that I can’t imagine. I wander in this strange foggy place and wonder what it is I do with my days?”
My very wise friend laughed and said, “I call that jet lag.”
But this is not so much a jet-lagged tiredness as it is an unknowingness. I feel detached, like I’m looking at my world through glass. It’s almost like a small ‘g’ version of grief.
Could it be so simple as feeling sad that the trip is over?
I don’t think that’s it, because as much as I loved our time in France, I’m very happy to be here too.
This is more like a general malaise that leaves me suspended above my life and not fully in it. I’m an observer at the best of times, but this is an extreme amplified version – where I’m both the observer and the observed – and yet not fully either one.
I could use the excuse that it’s because we’re returning to a life that is new to us and unestablished anyway, but that wouldn’t be the truth because I’ve felt the same every time I returned to our very-established home in Sechelt too.
I’m lost and adrift…
I think if I was ever to get a tattoo, it would be the one and only reminder I need for occasions such as these, and in fact, for every minute of every day. It would read, “This too shall pass.”
Blessedly, I woke this morning and, in spite of the beginnings of a cold, I could tell I was back in my life. I knew what to do. I was no longer at sea.
I started making a list, organized my closet for the new reality of winter, brought some of the firewood up to the living room, finished the laundry, did some errands, picked up supplies for an art project inspired by some pieces I saw in a gallery in France and generally remembered how to be in my life.
It turns out it’s all quite simple and rather glorious. Apparently all I really do is write, walk, move stuff around, talk to friends, drink coffee and create art.
Seriously. How hard is that?
Sometimes I feel like this when I come back from travelling. I think that you always leave part of yourself every time you go somewhere and it is hard to come back to reality.
I think you’re right Catherine. We leave part of ourselves wherever we’ve been. And I think that we also absorb from the destination a new version of ourselves for the same reasons. Perhaps it’s this ‘realignment’ that leaves us slightly at odds to what once felt like our normal reality.
And then, as we slowly integrate this new version of ourselves, we settle into being who we are, where we are.
Whatever the reasons, it’s always an interesting experience, although sometimes a little disconcerting.
As I read this I am sitting in the Guatemala airport about to head home after two weeks of traipsing around Central.America. I have already have some of those feelings and I am not even home yet.
But to quote my Dads favourite Bible verse which echoes your sentiments : 1 Kings 18:1, the King James version says, “And it came to pass ” (Misquoting this verse from the Bible always makes him smile)
As much as I look forward to getting home I know the business of my life will pull me through the reentry transition
Apparently the origin of ‘this too shall pass’ is thought to be from a Persian Sufi poet. It seems the thought has been around throughout cultures and ages and I like knowing that people throughout the ages have comforted themselves with this thought.
I think re-entry might be easier if you are pulled right into your business life. Then again, maybe the contrast is too much?
Still, everything is change and change is everything.
Colleen. Lovely. You were travelling with my dear friends Yvonne and Bruce. I travel a lot. We have a home where my husband is from. So lots of back and forth and we love to travel. Currently staying near a small town near the border of Tuscany and Umbria. I get that feeling a lot and it’s not at all comfortable.
I’ve decided its all the parts of my body and soul cells transitioning and settling
And needing to get some little roots back into my current “home”. Takes time but we get there.
Hi Nancy. It’s nice to hear that it isn’t an uncommon experience. I think you’re right, part of me is still somewhere over the Atlantic and trying to catch up to my new geographical location. I think that’s one of the reasons I love slow travel, like walking or cycling trips, it feels like the right speed over the landscape.
Re-entry is weird, in general, I think. Even when you leave your everyday for a short jaunt to a tropical island (which I recently did and arrived home not only with weird re-entry but regret. Don’t even ask…) Glad you woke up with a feeling of being right where you were supposed to be. That’s really it, I think. Accepting the reality of where we are — now, today. Physically — and even metaphorically, I would guess. The great part is that you embrace your life wherever you are! Enjoy your writing, walking, painting. It’s a good life, eh?
And welcome home.
It really IS a great life. It’s strange how sometimes it feels somehow unavailable. I’m ever so grateful to feeling more grounded and back in my body. I think you’re right. That really is it, “accepting the reality of where we are – now, today.” And welcome home to you too.
Sounds like heaven to me . 💗
It is quite heavenly Kathy. The trick is to truly be here. Maybe part of me was still in transit somewhere.