Lost …

I’d lost myself. I look in the mirror, and though I see the familiar features, I know not all of me is there; more or less of me is present, depending on the season, time of day, and, I’m certain, age. Parts of me tend to peel off and scatter behind laundry baskets and floors that demand vacuuming, dinners to be prepared, laundry to be folded, bills to be paid, and mail to be picked up. Oh, yeah, I also work full-time for a start-up, am writing a book, marketing a book, and so kids’ homework competes with financial reporting, corporate after-hours calls (is there even such a thing as after-hours?), and social media advertising, while my ideas are clamoring to be put on paper.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve been lost so badly; I’m still trying to collect myself. What were those two weeks, you ask? The first two weeks of school for my children. And so, some parts of me disappeared down the rabbit hole of schedules, “laying down the law” on family entertainment policy for the school year, extracurricular activities, new apps for school (Oh, dear God), apps for social media, and other forms of insanity. Part of me is buried somewhere in my anxiety over work, as there are changes that do not bode well. That part has been gone for some time. And again, another is lost down that path that explores things like long-term insurance, death, and the end of life.

“Come back,” I shout. But it’s long gone. I hope quietly that the part of me that’s gone on that path has a successful quest.

My son complains of strange pain, and cruel worry digs into me, its claws, as enormous as my imagination, its mood is as black as my fear. The claws are nowhere in particular, yet everywhere, digging into me from inside and wrapping me around. This part of me is retrievable, however. If I call loudly enough, it’ll be back, and a good thing too. The fear of that path drives it back. That particular path is darker than the dark, and if lost, the way back is hard and not a guarantee.

“Will you take me to a birthday party?” asks my eldest son.

“I have a new book idea I want to discuss,” says his younger brother.

“Can I talk to you about my hair?” asks my daughter.

As a parent, I willingly give up myself to support, listen, and comfort my children. But giving up is not the same as losing, just like dying is not the same as not living. Sometimes, I lose myself along the way, and like a caged animal, I pace in agitation, trying to find it … or perhaps waiting for it to return.

At some point, I discovered that one must stop and do what they need to do to collect bits of themselves, or they would stop to exist beyond being a parent and a spouse, beyond schedules and chores, beyond apps that tell you what to wear, whether it’ll rain, what to eat, drink, and when, as though we’d lost all of our instincts. Perhaps we have.

I open my phone and sigh. I love it. I loath it. I am with it like Gollum with that wretched ring. It’s stuffed with apps like sardines, like a fat belly in a shirt too tight. I wonder silently how far it’d go. There seems to be an app for everything. I mean, what’s next? An app that tells you when to breath, to have sex, to go outside and get fresh air, are there apps like that? For a brief moment, I contemplate and have an itch to check. I decide against it. I decide that if there are such apps, and I know about them, I’d lose more faith in humanity, and sometimes that’s worse than losing bits of yourself.

I know parts of me are lost somewhere there among the apps, in the digital forest. I don’t know if they are coming back. I’m not sure if I’d recognize them.

I feel like a walking 3D puzzle, with some pieces permanently missing. Some were lost recently, while others had been lost so very long ago. My father died tragically when I was twenty-five, and I was in another country. That piece of me was wrenched out and lost. So much unsaid, undone, unclosed, a permanent hole in my proverbial 3D puzzle. My mother died nearly twelve years ago. I couldn’t be there. Another piece ripped out. Together, they create a sort of tunnel through which the wind of guild and pain hunts what it can never have.

But … I’d gotten better at finding myself. I so often hear a growl inside me, “go, move, complete ….” I learned to say ‘no.’ I take longer to decide when at the crossroads. I take time just to be. I say ‘no’ to my children. And though I’d give my life for them, I refuse to be lost.

I go on a walk when the dawn and night still embrace one another, reluctant to be parted. It is there, in that ‘in between,’  that I see not just the moon in all its splendor, not just the stars and the first rays of the sun, but also wonders not seen in daylight. I sometimes see dragonflies as large as hummingbirds, animals that stay dormant during the day, and their behavior makes me convinced that I must certainly be in Narnia. Every time I walk in the hours of dawn, I feel as though part of me slides back into place. I walk inside my dilapidated backyard with uneven flowerbeds, touch the leaves, breathe deeply, and another part fills an empty space. It’s temporary, but I say ‘hello’ and cherish it.

I’ve dried many herbs this summer. My fingers slide over the dry, papery leaves and stems. I grind, I brew, I breathe in deeply and find another piece of me among stems of rosemary and purple basil.

So many bits of me are lost in this journey of life. Some forever, some for a time. But I know this: though I’m lost … and often, I’m findable, at least most of me is.