Getting lost used to scare me quite a bit. Not knowing where I was was an ample source of stress and anxiety. Feeling isolated and vulnerable, besides being painfully shy in my teenage years, compounded those negative feelings. I still remember the tearful phone call when I was thirteen to my mom from a gas station when I attempted to find my own way to my grandparents' house, and how silly, dumb and embarrassing it felt.
I've never been too aware of my surroundings. Sure, I can notice how the clouds look particularly luminous, the quaint tucked- away houses and wonderful gardens and the gentle shadows cast by lush leaves of summer trees, but the names of streets and the direction in which I'm walking (or cycling) escapes me. I'm so absorbed in taking in the little sights around me that where my feet are taking me does not seem to matter; though it does really (and in the back of my mind, those cautionary thoughts repeat over and over, while the seemingly more important adjectives and adverbs describing the scene overpower all things sensible in my mind).
However, I have found over the years that getting lost has forced me to develop my sense of direction (or lack thereof!). Being forced to find my way back home after a small adventure is a sure sink-or-swim tactic for balancing awareness with the inclination to be amused and awed by practically everything in the surrounding area.
I'm a space cadet, what can I say? But gradually I'm learning to come back to the solidity of ground level, even if it means I'll be inclined to float a bit.
