On feeling lost

And finding wisteria in the wild.

“The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.”

— David Wagoner

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Last October, when Elena was almost six months old, we went through a big season of stroller naps. Her last nap of the day always seemed to work best on the go, so I would buckle her in, tuck a blanket around her legs, and head out into the cool, fresh air.

It just so happened that it was also wisteria season in our neighborhood then, and everywhere I pointed the stroller, we’d see beautiful, blooming vines — draped across the front gates of houses, adorning wrought-iron fences and trellises. My memories of our walks at that time will forever be colored shades of lilac and lavender. 

But late one afternoon, as we walked along the edge of a small park, we passed a stand of towering pine trees. When I looked up, I was surprised to see wisteria there, too.

It was growing all over one of the trees, so that it was hard to tell where the pine branches ended and the pale purple blossoms began, like garlands of tinsel wrapped around a Christmas tree. And it was all backlit by the setting sun, whose soft golden rays made the scene feel like a painting.

As I stood there, I thought of a poem I’d discovered a few days earlier, via the wonderful

Poetry Unbound

podcast — “Lost,” by David Wagoner, which he based on the teachings of Native American elders in the Pacific Northwest:

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

In the early days after Elena was born, I often felt a little lost and out of my depth — figuring out when she should nap; trying to fix 4am wakings; wondering how to still be a good friend, sister, daughter, wife, when being a mom felt all-consuming. 

But that afternoon, the wisteria winding its way through the pines was not lost on me, and that felt like something.

And just maybe, it was everything.

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Has there been a moment of beauty or wonder that was not lost on you recently? I’d love to hear about it.

Wisteria in the wild in Montevideo, Uruguay.