“Ant!” my four-year old son yells as he grabs two empty yogurt containers from a bottom drawer in the kitchen. He turns and runs back to the ant, placing the containers on the floor and trying dutifully to coax the ant into one of them. I taught him how to save ants when we had a massive infestation in my kitchen last spring.
I worry. That’s what I do. Sometimes my stomach churns. Sometimes it doesn’t. My mind races ahead to the finish line and imagines scenarios —sometimes even full conversations—that may or may not ever happen. (Usually not). But when I’m in midst of all that anticipatory angst, it can be difficult to discern what is real and what is not.
It’s so easy to get lost. One way streets, 3-way intersections, angle streets, bowl-full-of-spaghetti streets—it doesn’t make much difference. One turn and suddenly I no longer know where I am. Or where I’ve been, let alone, how to get to where I need to go. A familiar panic starts to set in.