To Lost and Founds

A wayward scarf. A flash drive. One left glove. All in a box under a counter or desk. 

 

How much our lives have we just left as we shuttle from one place to another? We are talking to our friend as we leave the coffee shop or bar, gathering our jackets but not really paying attention so the glove slips out of the pocket. Or we leave the scarf on the back of the chair.

We loved that scarf. We had all our important documents on that flash drive. And yet, when they are gone, it really doesn't matter if we have it. A researcher explains that we are awful at predicting how deeply negative events will impact our lives. We are amazingly resilient, he says.

I'm thinking he's wrong. I'm thinking of losses that I've not recovered from. He says that most of us will return to our "baseline" happiness in time.

Sure, I can lose my wallet. I can replace anything in it. I could lose even irreplaceable objects: a picture Whit painted when he was 4. Even the videos of my first son, which I've never had the courage to watch. I could lose those. They could end up in a lost and found somewhere and I may never get them back.

And if you'd ask me if I am happy, does my life have meaning, would I call myself an optimist, I'd say yes. Yes to all those things. But "lost and found" isn't just "found." It's "LOST and found."

Recovery isn't about baselines.

We approach the counter with hope and fear. We rummage through the box. Did someone turn it in? What can I salvage? Will I know it when I see it?