Today, my son drove to a friend's house outside of Boston. I sat in the passenger seat. I only grabbed his arm a few timeS (though his side of the story is that it was more like 10) in moments when my adrenaline overtook me and I forgot to use my calm voice to tell him to watch the road or slow down. But all in all, I took the trip as a win. 

Car time presents an excellent time to talk to one's teenager, or more precisely, an enclosed hunk of metal going 60 miles per hour lends itself to one's teen talking to his mom more naturally than happens at home.

As he kept his eyes on the speed limit and I ate my PB&J, we found that yes, he can drive with music on, and yes, turns out he can also eat a slice of cold pizza while driving. We got to talking about school and the fact that graduating high school in a conventional way is not for everyone. 

One thing I told him was that there are many ways up the mountain. This is true of everything from religion to education to life in general. Yes, some paths are more well maintained than others, but that doesn't mean you must stay on them. 

The really cool part is that he just returned from a semester where one of the skills he developed was living in the actual wilderness with a small group of fellow students. Together, they learned how to read topographic maps, to follow water sources, to light stoves and cook meals, to stay safe, to look out for each other, and to have a good time even when conditions were challenging.

I myself have had many a metaphorical version of this experience, but he got to live it. That is something he could never have learned sitting in a classroom at his public school. 

I've thought a lot about Rebecca Solnit's essay "Open Door," in which she writes about the loss of never getting lost. The thing is, no matter how well-worn a path may seem, there is ultimately no way to be human without experiencing, at some time or another, being lost, if not geographically than emotionally and spiritually. 

I have been lost during conversations when I smiled and pretended I understood what we were talking about, only to let my face go slack later, aware of the effort it sometimes takes for me to partake of seemingly ordinary interactions.

I have certainly experienced a sense of being lost when it came to my life... questions about what to do, where to "find my place," and ultimately learning, time and time again, sometimes painstakingly and sometimes gleefully, that "my place" is not a place at all. 

On the drive home, I listened to music and lost myself in thought. I told my younger self how brave she was and how proud I am of her. I inventoried the many blessings of my life and told myself how proud I am of myself today, too. The concept of kintsugi came to mind, which Terushi Sho describes as reminding us "to celebrate the flaws and missteps of life." 

I turned off of Route 202 South onto Pelham Road and drove down the long hill back to Amherst, the town that has been my home for roughly half of the past 40 years. I passed three signs that have been home during different chapters of my life – Harkness Road, Lessey Street, Sunset Ave. 

I was heading to the Starbucks drive-through to pick up lattes for me and Mani when I saw what looked like a rainbow emerging from a hole in the sky, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. How auspicious! Why wasn't anyone else pulling over? I waited for a string of cars to pass me so that I could stop, lower my window, and snap the photo I immediately texted to my Mani and my kids.  

Back home, my little dog greeted me and Mani welcomed me home. Imagine my delight when I opened Facebook and these words from a gorgeous piece of writing by Virginia DeLuca awaited me: "Imagine how glittery I’d be if I filled in my cracks like the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, patching broken pottery with gold and silver. Imagine if instead of averting my eyes, I looked at my future ― however different it was now going to be ― with awe."

We all get lost. We all get found. We get lost and found. Sometimes we cannot find ourselves without the losing, and sometimes we cannot keep what we find.

How beautiful, to think that the sky finds us every day. How beautiful, to think the places where we cracked open are now "joined with gold." How beautiful, to find peace and yes, even joy, in the journey.