The delirious gospel

Oct. 11, 2007

Dear Patty,

Some people are good at finding their way no matter where they area. Lewis and Clark had a gift for it, although the presence of Sacagawea probably spared them from death or the ignominy of having to retreat to St. Louis. Some people get lost easily. When both parties in a marriage are in that group, lost can seem like a state of mind.

DC and I were made for GPS. Unfortunately the car we rented in California didn't have it. We didn't think we'd need the help. After all, DC had lived in San Francisco for 20 years. I had lived in the Bay Area for two years. We knew our way around.

But we couldn't find the flower market, one of DC's favorite places, and had trouble homing in on Chinatown, where DC spent 20 Chinese New Years. Locating Ocean Beach took awhile, even though it extends for five miles along the city's western edge.

I know. If looking for a beach in California, head west. Eventually the road will end and the ocean will get in your way.

DC thinks the problem was that San Francisco has changed dramatically in the 15 years since either of us lived there. Of course, San Francisco didn't move the beach.

I think the problem was assuming we wouldn't forget where things were. We're the ones who have changed. The neural pathways that used to direct us around San Francisco have disappeared. They have been replaced by neural pathways that carry information about going to the cabin on the Castor River.

The truth is, DC and I could have asked for directions and still gotten lost.

In his book "The Dream of Being," Jack Haas writes: "There are bees in every hive with inherent imperfections: they cannot navigate from the directions given by others. They fly off everywhere. They are always getting lost. They never gather much pollen. Yet, by an incongruous twist of fate, these bees can still dance directions to others. And so they occasionally return from their misguided wanderings with delirious gospel of what they have found. Good god, what they have found! It is the lost bee who finds new flowers."

One day in Humboldt County I decided to go for a half-hour walk in Arcata's marsh and wildlife sanctuary, mainly for the exercise. A half-hour hike.

A big group of young schoolchildren was entering the marsh in front of me, so I took a path no one else was on.

I found my way out two hours later.

The marsh covers 150 acres, and huge blackberry bushes obscure the landmarks near the perimeter. Paths that seemed circular are not, making the marsh a bit of a maze.

A man reading a book in the marsh told me how to get back to the parking lot. Once there I realized the sanctuary must have multiple parking lots. I was frustrated.

That was exactly the point when I gave up, quit looking for an escape hatch, quit worrying about the other things I'd intended to do that afternoon, quit worrying about finding my way and just allowed myself to be where I was: Lost in an aquaculture paradise with 250 species of birds.

Graceful Great White Egrets stood like lone sentries at the edges of ponds I came upon, and flocks of ducks rose from the water whenever I approached and hopped on to the next pond.

If you don't know where you're going, you're more aware of where you are.

Unintentionally, I eventually came upon my car.

Always knowing where you're going limits your chances of being surprised.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a reporter for the Southeast Missourian.