I felt lost this morning. That Where do I go from here? at the end of a big project. It’s over. There’ll be more to do, but nothing to match that satisfaction of everything falling into place.
I’m not a newcomer to being physically lost. My first experience was in Kindergarten. Told to walk home with the Jones boys (twins), I was sure they were going the wrong way. They turned left. I turned right and marched about three blocks the wrong way. Mom found me in front of the Methodist Church.
A few years later, I discovered why I get lost. After picking up our toys, we kids could go enjoy the “Saturday Morning Matinee”: Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, or some other western hero. We ran downhill and turned right. Mid-block was the theater. Invariably, following the triumphant cowboy finish, I’d leave the theater and turn right—toward the familiar view—only to realize that I’d added two extra blocks to my gallop for home.
I thought of that this morning, walking Sophie. She often brings me to a halt with her sniffing. I looked back down the street at the winter-bare trees hanging over the park. To not get lost, it’s important to look back the way we came.
I’m most often looking ahead toward the next project. Maybe that’s why I still haven’t tackled sorting all those photographs.
So what’s the answer to mourning the loss of a fictional world? It’ll take some effort, but I have to return to the physical world. Get outside and prune the apricot tree, set out more seed trays to sprout, clear out some closets, clean the house. Post more blogs. Maybe even sort those photos.
Until a new goal appears on the horizon, and I forget to look back—again.
Kate Harrington 