Sometimes when I wake up, I’m not really sure where I am. The world outside my bedroom window is the street of my childhood, not my present home.  I’m fearful that when I grow older this will be worse, and I will be lost in my own world. 

I don’t remember ever being lost as a child, although I know I must have.  Most children do get lost at one point; it seems a requirement of childhood.  Now that I think of it, I recall heading to the information center of a store, and having the attendants call over the intercom for my mother.  And lucky for me, I can picture the look of annoyance on my mother’s face as she approached the counter. 

It scares me, that flash of another place.  I want to know where I am at, and not only in the physical sense.  I want to be fully, soulfully, grounded in the present.

I’m not quite in the present now. I have been meandering in the past, and not because things were better.  I am lost.  It would be wonderful to head to the information center, and call for my family to come get me.  I think I could even handle the look of annoyance they would hold as they came to get me, because I know I would be going home.