I live at the base of an extinct volcano, and I like walking up to the top and back down through the very lovely neighborhood that shares the volcano’s name—Mt. Tabor. In spring and summer, the flowers and trees along the way attract multitudes of bees and, being enamored with them as I am, I can spend hours just wandering and watching. If I’m not actively listening to the buzz of the bees or birds, I often have earbuds in, either listening to music or an audiobook or talking on the phone. Occasionally I even talk through an idea aloud “with myself” in a voice memo. That’s what I was doing on one particular evening recently.

It was getting dusky when I started my walk, and I must have been very focused on my memo because, when I looked up at some point, it had gotten dark, and I didn’t know where I was. Mind you, this is a very safe neighborhood, quiet and well lit, and I’ve walked the same route through it maybe hundreds of times. Still, for the briefest of moments, I felt lost. And, I’ll admit, I momentarily felt afraid. I can’t even tell you why except to say that it was probably instinctual.

I had a digital map in my pocket, after all. I couldn’t get lost in the city—really lost—if I tried. Besides, I know my route so well I don’t necessarily need to pay attention—my feet and senses know their way. In other words, I was entirely safe. I was just so busy being present with my thoughts, with talking through ideas—busy with creating—that I lost track of my surroundings. 

Just the briefest few seconds went by, as I stopped on the sidewalk to look around for a familiar house to orient myself, before these words came to mind, as clearly as if they’d been whispered to me: I’m lost but fine. In that moment, the involuntary fear that had welled up inside me did more than just subside; it vanished in little more than the blink of an eye. I knew these words were true. And it didn’t take me long to recognize their greater significance.

The words—I’m lost but fine—came from both from my deepest wisdom (they welled up inside me just when I needed to “hear” them) and from a universal wisdom that has woven its way through spiritual traditions and art for millennia. 

Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves. -Henry David Thoreau

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, “This is the way; walk in it.” -Isaiah 30:21

To get lost is to learn the way. (African proverb)

Indeed, it was feeling lost that stirred the wisdom up in me. 

I didn’t need to voice my fear or pray to the Universe or God for help; it just came to me in a gentle knowing. Like the answer to a question I didn’t have to ask, what I needed was right there waiting for me—inside me even—not in the form of a solution but rather as quiet reassurance. I was safe and secure and held even as I temporarily felt out of control. 

Now, getting lost on a neighborhood walk might seem insignificant compared to feeling lost in life or in existential crisis. But, to me, the sentiment applies to the big and small. It’s worth mentioning that all the while I was moving in the right direction on my walk. I knew the way and was walking it, even while I felt disoriented—and I believe this to be true in a grander sense. Whenever I fear I’ve lost my way, I know deep down I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. When I can tap into and hold onto that knowing, I find peace. And ultimately I’m fine.

It truly is in getting lost that I believe we find our way.

What simple yet profound learning to come to me on an evening walk!

Next time I’m lost—physically or otherwise—I’ll bring these words to mind and find solace in them just like I did when I first felt them well up in me: I’m lost but fine. 

And just like before, the words will be true.