Lost and Found

I remember when I first learned how to read a map in elementary school. I quickly figured out how to orient myself in relation to my house on North Chatsworth Street; our living room had a huge bay window where I could see the sun set over the woods in our backyard, so I knew that was west, which meant the front of my house was east. Armed with that knowledge, I could picture myself looking down at my house as if I were looking at a map.  All the elements of my child’s world became oriented by the directions of the compass—west of my backyard was Lake Josephine and the Dairy Queen, Emmett D. Williams Elementary School was just north of my house (only 2 blocks, but for some reason, I rode the bus) and my best friend’s house was five houses directly east of my front door on Lydia Drive. My church was farther away, to the south and east.  As I grew older and my world began to expand, my house remained at the center of my sense of direction, and learning to drive the many freeways of the Twin City metro area was relatively easy so long as I knew where I was in relation to my home.

When I left home for college in Utah Valley, the mountains became the anchor for my sense of direction, but I also still found it helpful to look at my city as if I were looking at a map, with me at the center. I’ve had many opportunities to travel in the last 30 years and learned that if I spent 5 minutes looking at a map and orienting myself mentally, I would always know where I needed to go. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I have been lost in the hundreds of new places I have travelled as an adult. When my husband and I travel together, we know that it usually works best if he drives and I navigate. I just sort of assumed that it was a gift of mine to always have a sense of direction and took it for granted that I could always count on that.

Lately, however, I have had a few experiences with a disturbing loss of my sense of direction. None of them were life-threatening or disastrous in any way, but they were none-the-less disconcerting. I travelled to Italy a few months ago with my husband and son and on our first day in Florence, I confidently led us on what I thought would be a 10-minute walk to the Duomo, only to end up 20 minutes later at the square in front of Santa Croce—in the complete opposite direction of our intended destination. We easily corrected our mistake, as Florence is not a large city, but I was a little shaken to find that I had been so wrong. And then last week, I was driving from St. George to Las Vegas to fly back to Colorado and was completely sure that I knew how to get back to the Rental Car return without my GPS navigation. I took the right exit off of the interstate, but after several blocks realized I was going in the opposite direction of where I needed to go. Again, not something terrible, but was for some reason very unsettling.

Upon reflection of these experiences, I realize that the disquieting part to me was the fact that I had counted on my sense of direction to always be there, and then, without warning, it failed me. Very much like the fact that my children, who have been my almost constant companions for the last 23 years (whether I wanted them to be or not), are not there anymore. Sure, they are just a text, phone call or email away, but it’s the lack of their physical presence that is disorienting. For my entire life, I have centered my sense of physical and emotional direction on my home, and now, though my home is in the same place, I must learn to re-orient myself. Which is hard, but definitely possible. So I will press forward, checking my maps a little more frequently and carefully, knowing that though I might wander off course occasionally, so long as I know the location of my home I will always find the way there.