I first learned to read topographical maps in the low, rolling Appalachian Mountains.
In Pisgah National Forest, where I backpacked as a college student, most trails looked the same—green and leaf-hugged.
The stream valleys all look about the same.
Even the rounded, tree-covered peaks were mostly not that different from each other.
Figuring out where you were just by looking at the map felt nearly impossible.
(Later, when I moved to Colorado, I loved the far-reaching views and the distinct, oddly shaped peaks. They made it much easier to tell one place from the next.)
My guides gave me this advice as I learned: Keep following along. Don’t just pull out your map every few hours to reorient. Stay clear on where you are as you go.
That’s great advice for East Coast backpacking. But some seasons of life don’t allow for that.
No matter how much we try to stay oriented—tracking where we started and where we’ve been—life doesn’t always match the map we expected to follow.
I’m in a season like that. (Just completed a breakup, in case you’ve been reading between the lines.)
I feel disoriented. The topography isn’t matching anything I expected.
In moments like these, I turn to my favorite poem, which I want to share with you now:
Lost
by David Wagoner
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.
What I love about this poem is that lost doesn’t have to be a problem.
Lost is uncomfortable. The mind rushes to fix it.
Mine does too, constantly.
But that’s the practice, isn’t it? Allowing uncertainty. Sitting with confusion.
Getting curious—maybe even delighted—about the mystery of it all.
Nothing big changes without time in the fertile void.
So if you feel lost right now—about your career, your relationships, your role in the world—stand still.
Let the forest find you.
Uncomfortably yours,
Rachel
PS – Extra vulnerable time: This poem was with me last spring as I mourned the death of my former partner, Tzadik (his name comes up in the video). Over a month, a melody emerged, turning the poem into a song. I recorded myself singing it during a solo wilderness grief trip last May. I’ve never shared it before, but it feels right for this week’s post. Here it is, in case you want a version that’s live, raw, and musical:
