Sometimes when I’m lost, and I need some reassurance, I like to pull into a parking lot and watch people amble by, looking for their cars. Somehow this exercise becomes my symbol of companionship—a sort of impromptu support group—that builds my confidence and reassures me that here, I fit in perfectly.
To me: I’m desperately seeking the support structure that was my foundation. Crumbling in Okefenokee, Okmulgee, or Ogalala, where ever I am OK, Terina
I watch these fellow seekers as their confident stride falters, slowing to a hesitant shuffle and all the while, the head turns like a broken compass bobbing back and forth seeking magnetic north. [1]
As the scene plays out, I use their success or failure as portend of my fate—a magic ball to foretell the end of my trip. Either I will have eventual success or I should stop right now and go home. It’s nice to have some small hand in my own destiny. With their outcome, either heartened or disillusioned, I drive off into my day.
Reality Bite: Ha! I’m not the only one. When my friend goes to the restroom in a restaurant, her family knows to retrieve her from her kitchen inspection, and redirect her back to the table.
[1] All of life's problems stem from disregarding magnetic north, (except for those directly related to the breaking of the universal clean-underwear rule.)
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