Feeling Lost

Patrick leans up against his chair and takes another drag. A long white exhale. The smoke twirls in the glitter of LA below. White and red rivers curve through the sprawl. A few crickets hum in the mountain bush. A starless sky above.

“Have you figured out what you’re gonna do after you graduate?” Tommy asks.

“Not sure yet,” Ian replies. “Ryan and I’ve been talking about backpacking for a year in South and Southeast Asia. India. Thailand. Cambodia. Indonesia. Hit some good surfing spots along the way. But if we do, we’ve gotta start saving now.”

“The fuck you talking about?” Ryan asks. “Your momma will pay for everything, just like she paid for your degree, car, and even these fancy little chairs we’re sitting on.”

Ian snarls, “That’s my point. I want to support myself once I’m out of college. I’m not going to apologize or feel guilty for my parents having money, but now that college is over, it’s time I make my own way. Jealous, perhaps? Anyways, at least I’m not slinging weed.”

“That’s the shit you’re smoking right now,” Ryan shoots back. “So it’s bad to sell it but OK to buy it?”

“You sure you guys wanna go backpacking together?” Tommy interjects, taking a long look at both of them.

They both laugh and shake their heads. “You don’t understand. Hate’s our love language. We’re good. Anyways, what are you gonna do once you finish your engineering program?”

“Work,” he says flatly. “I’ve got two younger brothers, and my parents demand that I help pay for their college. I’d like to help anyways, but it’s always a command with them. ‘You’re going to get the highest paying job so you can help us get your brothers through school.’ Not even a question about what I want. Nope. Just a do this. Asian parents,” he sighs.

The anxiety builds in Patrick as the conversation runs its course. He looks away, absorbed in the lights and the sounds of the bush.

“Patty, what about you?” Ryan asks. “Still ‘figuring stuff out’ after…” Tommy shoots Ryan a hard look and shakes his head.

“Yea, I’m still not sure,” Patrick says as he turns ’round to face them. “I thought dropping out and spending time figuring myself out would make everything clear, but it’s done the opposite. I feel more lost than ever.” A long silence follows.

“I gotta piss,” Patrick says, putting his beer down and stomping out his joint.

“Don’t forget your flashlight,” Tommy shouts as Patrick stumbles off. “There are rattlesnakes and scorpions that couldn’t care less how drunk you are.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and reluctantly pulls out a pocket flashlight. “Thanks, mom,” he quips as he stumbles through the Southern California bush.

As their voices drift away, the sounds of the mountain swallow him. A lone bird’s shrill cry. The wind running through dry grass. The crunch of his feet against the earth. He doesn’t want to go back. He wants to walk until the unknown devours him like a flame.

The ridge line ends before him in a precipitous drop. A few hundred yards away, he can see the warm glow of dining room lights and the flickering blues of TV. On a slice of road, a Shih Tzu drags a waddling old man.

He sits on a large flat rock and gazes into the darkness. The question keeps coming: “What should I do?” But as soon as it’s asked, his mind blanks and his body seizes. Again he asks; again, he freezes. And again. And again. And with each round, more pressure, more stress, more uncertainty, more anger at the sorry mess that he’s become. He lets out a groan.

“Hey,” he hears from behind. It’s an old familiar voice. As he looks back, he sees a man walk towards him from the edge of the light. His eyes glitter with something he wants but doesn’t know.

“Um…do I know you?” Patrick asks apprehensively.

“Kind of,” Lugh replies. “We met a few years back, but you probably don’t remember.”

“When?” an incredulous Patrick asks.

“At The Iliad bookstore. You thought I was staff there and asked if I knew where the Ancient Greek philosophy section was. It became an hour-long conversation about Stoicism, Berkeley, Newton, and Hume.”

“Oh, you,” Patrick says in disbelief. “I never even got your name. Mine’s Patrick.”

“Lugh,” he says as he reaches out and shakes Patrick’s hand.

“What are you doing here?” a still skeptical Patrick asks.

“Walking. This Irish skin isn’t made for the California sun,” Lugh replies.

“Tell me about it,” Patrick says as he bears the ivory underside of his arms.

“And what brings you here?” Lugh asks.

“Honestly - and-and I apologize for saying this to you, but I don’t know who to talk to about this, not good. I feel lost. My friends are a few hundred yards back there, planning their lives. My ex, Brooke, is going off to medical school next year. And me? Haven’t a damn clue.”

Lugh sits down beside him and pats him on the back. “I don’t know much, but I’m curious: what do you mean when you say you’re lost?” Patrick looks back at him, confused. “Let me rephrase that: explain what ‘being lost’ is. I hear this said a lot, but I'm never quite sure what the meaning is.”

“Adrift. No purpose. No place. Unsure of who I am or what I want. Unsure of what I’m doing and where I’m going. Unmoored. Rootless,” Patrick replies.

“Oof. Sounds rough to be so adrift. To my mind, your definition of ‘being lost’ is a jumble of emotions and longings, but would it be fair to boil it down to two problems: 1) identity: not knowing who you are and 2) purpose: not knowing what your purpose is?” Lugh asks.

“Yea, that sounds fair,” Patrick replies.

“So let’s start with the beginning: not knowing who you are. Can you clarify what you mean when you say, ‘Know who I am?’ Obviously, you mean more than simply your name and the facts of life that you jot down while applying for a Visa. Date of birth. Name. Parents. Occupation. Place of residence. Income,” Lugh asks.

“There are many parts to this answer, I suppose. Let me try to list out a few: 1) strengths and weaknesses, 2) personal history, 3) psychology, and 4) skills,” Patrick answers.

“Do you really not know what your strengths and weaknesses are, though? Do you not know your personal history? Do you not know what angers and excites you? And do you not know your skill set? These don’t seem like tough questions, and I’m confident you could answer them easily with some depth and accuracy,” Lugh says.

“Actually, that’s true. I can answer those questions already. So I suppose it means I'm feeling lost because I don’t know my purpose, not because I don’t know who I am?” Patrick wonders.

“Perhaps,” Lugh replies, “but if you understand all four of these aspects, shouldn’t you also have some idea of your purpose? Let’s just break it down hypothetically:

Strengths: skilled communicator, high discipline, works well independently, highly creative.

Weaknesses: difficult working in large teams, lacks organization, not meticulous.

Personal History: Many years of experience in writing, including winning multiple writing competitions. Failed to work for a big corporation due to the regimentation. Parents are both artists with an extensive network of artist friends.

Skills: Photoshop, photography, writing, interviewing, networking, and sales.

With these qualities, he can work in marketing, screenwriting, or journalism. Surely you know at least what professions suit you and don’t suit you, even though you might not know exactly what career path you want to follow, right?” Lugh asks.

“That’s true.” Patrick admits, “but it also feels like it’s missing a big chunk of what it means to be me. I’m not just a laborer. I’m a son, a friend, a human. Where does all of that fit into this?”

“Right, so now you’re expanding the scope of your question, ‘Who am I?’ Let’s go back to the definition of identity, and, if you allow me, I’d like to propose my own definition. You realize you have part of the answer, but there’s more to it. To make this clear, look at that manzanita over there. Imagine if I were to ask you, ‘What is this?’ and you took out a book on trees and listed some of its general features, such as height, color of its leaves, and the density of its wood. Would you feel like you understood the tree?” asks Lugh.

“In a very superficial way,” Patrick replies, “and enough to identify it.”

“What information would you need to understand this tree?” Lugh inquires.

“I’d need to understand its role in the environment and how other forces have shaped it,” Patrick answers.

“Yes, a manzanita is a sturdy, short, and scraggly tree. On this dry ridgeline, it might be a refuge for creatures seeking shade, but further down in the moist valley, giant oaks dwarf it. There, is the manzanita a refuge from the heat?” asks Lugh.

“No. The larger oaks would eat up all of the sunlight, and not only would the manzanita have no role, it probably wouldn’t even exist. That’s why you’ll hardly find any in the wetter areas with thicker canopy,” replies Patrick.

“Right, so if you’d like to find out its identity and purpose, you must also understand its environment. You can’t just focus on the plant itself, as no plant exists in abstraction. In the old days, we called this set of relationships the Four Roots because, just like a tree, a man in whom these roots are strong thrives. Without them, he withers and dies,” Lugh says.

“What do you mean by ‘the old days’ - you look no older than me,” Patrick asks.

“The short answer is the old days in Ireland and Scotland. I’m a bit of a history lover, you can say,” Lugh answers. “Anyways, it seems to me that the problem is that we’re treating identity as if there’s some abstract answer that we can arrive at. Like the tree, you don’t exist as an abstract set of strengths and weaknesses but as a part of an environment, a network of relations. By pondering this question with such a narrow frame, it’s unsurprising that your efforts have brought you little other than frustration and confusion, like a man lost in a desert that unknowingly runs away from his salvation. He’s trying very hard but going in the wrong direction.

Let’s return to this tree again. What it is depends on its environment. If you dig up this tree and place it at the center of your home garden, it’s a living work of art. For a Native American living here a few centuries back, it’s fuel and raw material for tools. For insects, it’s sustenance.”

“But it’s still a manzanita tree no matter where it’s placed, though,” Patrick argues. “It’s still the same size and height and has the same qualities regardless of who looks at it and where it’s located.”

“It still has those qualities, but they only have value and meaning in relation to its environment. As we said, the manzanita tree might be a life-saver up on the ridge here, but it will seem scrawny and useless down in the valleys below. It might’ve been an important fuel source for Native Americans centuries back, but do you see any locals now cutting them down to grill with? No. Value and meaning emerge from the relationship between an object’s qualities and environment.

“Therefore, you don’t look to answer your question of identity by trying to abstract yourself from everything. You answer it by understanding both yourself and your relationship to the world around you, and then building those relationships. By doing so, your identity and purpose will become clear.

“It’s at this point that the ancient Celtic concept of the Four Roots comes in. Those Four Roots are:

1. Roots of Land: our material environment. This has four main aspects: 1) geology and geography, 2) buildings and infrastructure, 3) plants and animals, 4) your physical body, and 5) other physical objects, such as food, water, and phones.

2. Roots of Blood: our community and ancestry. This also has four main aspects: 1) family and ancestors, 2) friends and teachers, 3) local community, and 4) history.

3. Roots of Spirit: our psyche, myths, and symbols. It has four main aspects: 1) focus, 2) emotion, 3) myths and symbols, and 4) rites and rituals.

4. Roots of View: our intellectual understanding of ourselves and the world. It has four main aspects: 1) intuition, 2) observation, 3) reason, and 4) oneness.

There’s an old Irish tale about the Four Roots which…” but before Lugh finishes, the two of them hear the crunch of gravel behind. Lugh shakes his head and turns to Patrick, “Now comes the queen of chaos.”

“What?!” Patrick replies.

“Can I finish the story?” Danu replies, her features barely visible in the dark. Patrick notices only her eyes, shining like a moon in the river.

“I thiiink I need to get back to my friends. It’s already been a while, and they're probably imagining that I’ve been eaten by a mountain lion at this point,” Patrick says as he rises. Lugh gently pushes him down and presses him back into his seat.

“It’s not even midnight yet. They’re fine,” Lugh says. “And this story is a marvel. I’d hate for you to miss it.”

Patrick studies both of their faces, searching for some assurance that he's not about to become the subject of a murder mystery doc in a few years. What he finds surprises him: two faces possessed with an otherworldly beauty that shames any human he'd ever laid his eyes on, but something was off. With them, he felt both safe and terrified. Without knowing why, he says yes.

“Let me text them just to let them know I'm not a mountain lion's dinner,” Patrick says.

“While he’s doing that,” Danu says as she turns to look down at Lugh, “will you allow me to tell that silly story of yours?”

“If you still think it’s silly, then no. Shakespeare read like a phone book dies on the lips,” Lugh responded.

“It won’t die on these lip - friend,” she says.

“Will you at least give the background, as well?” Lugh asks.

“No need, I think,” Danu replies.

“But he should understand the context to understand its message. Without that, it loses its power,” Lugh protests.

“Or gains more of it from its mysteries, and I love mystery,” Danu replies.

“You mean ignorance,” Lugh retorts.

“Same thing,” Danu says with a chuckle. “And the story, yes, yes, the story. The Story of the Mountain Pool and the Fox.

“A long, long time ago, a kit called Boom was born, named after the thunderstorm that was raging while he and his siblings came into this world. He grew up like every other kit, playing, brawling, fighting over food. A few didn’t make it. One got caught out in a storm and froze to death. Another was snatched by an eagle as the family scoured the coast for food. After he grew strong and confident in his abilities, the unthinkable happened: he was thrown out of his home.

His two sisters could stay, but his mother and aunt insisted he find new grounds. Boom tried to sneak back home several times, but each time his mother attacked him more fiercely until he was left with no choice but to venture into the unknown.

As he wandered further, each new patch of land offered only brief respites. He’d scavenge for a few days before the resident male would discover his presence and punish him for his intrusions. Cast out, he wandered further and further, surviving off berries, roots, and the odd rodent. All that was left of him: fur and bones. Driven out time and time again, he felt hopeless. Perhaps, he wondered, his fate would be like that of his siblings who didn’t make it.

Against his mother’s advice, he went up into the mountains of Connacht. The food was scarce, but so was the competition. There, he scrapped by for one year and packed some muscle onto his frame.

At another spring's arrival, though, he felt desolate. When he was young, he hadn’t a care. Now, he had to endure wild boar attacks, roving bands of wolves, bone-chilling colds, and starvation-fueled hunts.

One rainy spring morning, he sought shelter at a local cave. He wandered into its lightless depths until he couldn't see his own paws. At its end, he discovered a small pool of pristine water. Approaching it, he was shocked to hear it call out to him, asking the young fox why he was so sad. Boom replied that he felt lonely and hopeless. Life was hard and pointless, and he didn't know if he could keep going for much longer.

The pool told him that he didn’t have any answers. What he offered, instead, was friendship, the friendship of nature, of the sky, the hills, the sun and the moon, the stars and the grasses. But for this friendship, Boom had to agree to three conditions: 1) he takes no more than he needs, 2) he thanks Her for each meal, and 3) he enjoys Her song each day. The fox agreed, and his spirits lifted. Hope had arrived.

Another year passed, and the once scrawny Boom had grown solid and sleek. He moved down from the mountain into richer real estate, muscling away his competitors. Even though he was now rich and had the friendship of the land, he still felt like something was missing. He realized what that was when autumn came: love.

A beautiful vixen came strutting through his lands, and Boom found himself smitten. He followed her everywhere and did everything she asked: brought her the choicest cuts of meat, showed her the cathedrals of oak, the little streams that flow through the woods, and basked together in the sun beside a lake. As nice as this was, she felt she could do better than this upstart and left. Boom was heartbroken.

Soon, though, another vixen came, and Boom played it cool. After a few weeks, they were in love, and by spring, they had a family on their hands. Boom wore himself down hunting to provide for his little ones, although he preferred to keep a distance. After his kits grew up - all healthy, fortunately, he left the territory to their mother and his daughters.

He moved on and repeated this cycle for many years, but after some time, he grew weary. He was proud of having fathered so many foxes who now spread throughout the countryside, but he’d also had many close calls and was losing his strength. Recovery slowed. Intrusions from younger, stronger males were more difficult to fend off. Unwilling to risk serious injury from a fight, he found himself pushed up against the foot of the mountains yet again. In a few years, even that territory he would be unable to defend. Sorrow and hopelessness returned.

As he thought about his fate, he remembered the mountain pool he had found all those years back and hoped it might advise him further. He traveled through the mountains and returned to its waters. He asked what he should do now that he’s aging and successfully raised several large, healthy families. He wasn’t getting any younger.

The pool told him that art and worship of the gods were one way to find solace in the face of his mortality. His children and wives might leave him, but through art and the gods, he can defy death. Instead of returning, the fox stayed at the pool and devoted himself to song and worship.

Life was harsh but peaceful. He composed hundreds of ballads and hymns. His voice grew as soothing as spring rain. Many animals would gather to listen to him, and local foxes committed his songs to heart. Even his own former lovers and children would come to listen and learn from him about love, rage, beauty, glory, and the gods. A grander sense of place and purpose perfumed his life, and he shared it readily with others.

Many years passed while on those mountains, and as his skills and knowledge grew, so did his fame. Animals and druids came from far and wide to hear his songs and tales of the old gods. Yet as his success skyrocketed, a gnawing sense of lack returned. Something was missing. He studied more and further refined his craft, but he felt stuck. Finally, he returned to the pool, hoping for its wisdom.

This time, though, was different. Instead of listing his complaints, he sang of the glories and wonders of life. He recounted how grateful he was for the bounties of nature, the joys of family and love, and the ecstasies of song and myth. With all of this, though, he still couldn’t shake that something was amiss. When he asked for its guidance, the pool gave out a great laugh and then said nothing further.

Boom waited, hoping for some words of wisdom, but none came. Knowing that true wisdom is hard-earned, he didn’t give up. He canceled his engagements and sat by the pool every day, often hungry, and waited. A month passed, but the pool remained silent. Sitting in stillness day after day, Boom's lack melted away into water and stones.

One night, while Boom was sleeping by its side, he saw the spirit of the pool approach him in his dreams. The pool declared:

The mountains - your bones.
The earth - your flesh.
The rivers - your blood.
The sky - your mind.
The stars - your thoughts.
The clouds - your heart.

When he woke up the next day, he knew his journey had ended. He left the cave and said farewell to the streams and the rocky overhangs that were once his refuge. He said farewell to the red deer, the bears, and the wolves. He said farewell to the other foxes, to his wives, children, and grandchildren. His goodbyes done, he climbed up to the mountain top and was never seen again.”

“So…he died?” Patrick asks.

“It doesn’t say,” Lugh replies. “But in another version, he returned after a few years, old and hobbled. He shared what he had learned before traveling to the cliffs and offering himself to a young eagle. The eagle thanked him and then ripped out his heart and devoured him. Out of respect, the eagle grabbed Boom’s remains, flew into the open seas, and threw his body into the ocean with a prayer. This is also why the people of Connacht buried their druids and kings at sea, out of respect for the fox that brought wisdom to the land.”

“I like that version more,” Patrick says. “It seems more noble.”

“There are many stories,” Danu interrupts. “And many meanings and many beginnings, middles, and ends. For this reason, I’m suspicious of Lugh and his grand, rational, coherent systems, the Four Roots included.”

“What do you propose instead, then” Patrick asks.

“Nothing,” Danu replies flatly.

“So for someone feeling unrooted and lost, your solution is do nothing?” Patrick asks.

“I didn’t say do nothing, I said I have no solutions to propose,” Danu corrects him.

“But then won’t I just stay as I was - lost?” Patrick asks.

“Water naturally settles to its lowest point. Trees naturally grow towards sunlight. The seasons follow each other and create the most spectacular displays in the universe - all without a single thought of ‘The Four Roots’ or questions of ‘Who am I?’” she replies. “The fox came to the pool and asked for answers, and he got them. We need only look to nature, and the answer will reveal itself.”

“And where do you suppose these ideas came from?” Lugh asks.

“Arrogance,” she replies.

“Is arrogance natural or unnatural?” Lugh presses back. But as she’s about to speak, a cry comes from behind them. “Patrick! Patrick!”

Patrick looks at his phone. 1 AM! “Fuck!” he says, “I didn’t realize it was this late.” He thinks about inviting them to hang out again, but such a request would break some sacred thread strung between them all. He’s happy that whatever this was unfolded, and that’s enough. “Thank you so much,” he says as he puts out his hand. Lugh pushes it aside and hugs him, followed by Danu.

“May you find your way,” Lugh says, as they turn back and disappear down the ridge.

“Coming!” Patrick shouts back as he makes his way back. “What the hell was that!?” he whispers, shaking with glee. He feels good, better than he’s felt in a long time.

The sound of an idle engine and the fragrance of beer and weed greet him. Then Ryan, “Where the fuck did you go to, boy? Was starting to worry that you got eaten by a bear or something.”

“Yea,” Ian says. “You were gone for ages. What were you up to?”

Patrick shrugs, “I just needed some time to myself.”