Lost

In the opening lines of the Divine Comedy, Dante speaks to something deep within us as human beings: “In the middle of this road we call our life/I found myself in a dark wood/With no clear path through”—in other words, lost. To really know where one is, his poem tells us, allegorically at least, one has first to descend, go underground, into the darkness of hell. Only then can one make the ascent to heaven.

When we feel that we have lost our way, perhaps during a time of darkness, or despair, or confusion, we might ask ourselves, “How did I get here?” “Where am I?” “What is this place I find myself in now?”

As soon as we start attending, we are no longer lost. We are simply where we are. Where we actually are is always a good place to begin, both physically, when we’ve lost our bearings, and metaphorically, when it feels as if we no longer know what we are doing as parents, or in our work, or in our lives in general.

Perhaps, in some way, we are always lost, to the degree that we are not fully awake. Perhaps what is most important is our willingness to be where we actually are and dwell here fully, in darkness or in light, without having to go somewhere else. Only then may we know where to place our foot when it is time to move.

The poem “Lost” by David Wagoner, based on the Northwest Native American tradition, captures this spirit. It is what the elder might say in response to a young boy or girl who comes and asks, “What do I do when I am lost in the forest?”

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.

The poet reminds us that our lives depend on our sensitivity to the particulars, that if what the forest or a tree does, or the look of a child, is lost on us, then we are surely, in some deep way, lost. The call is to pay attention, to wake up to where we are, to what is before us and all around us, here, now. Can we learn to stand still? Can we hear the forest of life and of the world breathing, calling to us to be still for a moment, to wake up, to feel the interconnectedness of all things, to realize that no two moments are the same? Can we listen in this way to our children?

This is the challenge of bringing mindfulness into our parenting, especially at those moments that seem the darkest, and when we feel the most adrift, without bearings, lost. Can we stand still right there, right then, which in actuality, is always right here, right now, and be in touch with and guided by what is most basic, through our own attention?