When You Have Lost Yourself

It takes a while to find yourself again

after you lost yourself in the dark forest,

accidentally letting go of your hand,

losing sight of yourself. “Where did she go?”

you ask the owl, the squirrel, the skeptical fox

who looks at you like a philosophy professor

when you have given an answer so obviously wrong

that he can tell you haven’t read the textbook.

Unfortunately, there are things no philosophy textbook

will tell you, like how not to lose yourself,

where the paths in the forest go, or what the trees

are whispering as you pass — the oak, the beech,

the alder. Are they talking about you, or

the other you, wherever she is wandering?

It takes a while to find yourself — it takes

looking behind each tree, under each rock,

on the backs of leaves, among the meadow grasses,

asking crickets, chickadees, woodpeckers,

calling up to the distant circling hawk,

who can see the flickering tail of a hare as it runs

across a clearing. Perhaps you have hidden yourself

in its burrow, lined with fur, under an oak tree?

Perhaps you have hidden yourself under the roots

that overhang the stream, and only dragonflies

notice your eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Perhaps you have hidden yourself under the litter

of last year’s leaves, or up in the canopy,

which is already turning red with autumn.

And once you have found yourself, what will you do?

I suggest taking yourself back to the cottage

near the clearing, sitting yourself in front of the fire,

making yourself some soup on the ancient stove,

with carrots, potatoes, and beans, flavored with parsley,

then putting yourself to bed and telling yourself

one of the old stories. It is after all

stories that tell us who we are, stories

that remind us where the paths might lead, and how

to talk to foxes so we can ask directions,

how to find the witch at the heart of the forest,

who might, as it turns out, be yourself after all,

stories that tell us what we could become,

stories that guide us home.

-- Theodora Goss