We’d decided to spend election night in Verona at our daughter’s and son-in-law’s house. The next day was our granddaughter’s 4^th birthday, and we reasoned that we’d have two reasons to rejoice.

We were wrong. The next day, the only thing we could celebrate was Charlie. But even Charlie, dressed in her princess gown, her wide grin and masses of curly brown hair constantly falling into her sparkling eyes, failed to cheer me up. Fried potatoes for breakfast only added to my overwhelming nausea. Sharing my grief with others who were grieving just like me offered only temporary respite. Finally, I did the one thing that almost always heals my soul: I took a dog for a hike.

Gus is my son-in-law’s dog, a sweet and gentle black Lab mix. We started out on a familiar trail near their house, Gus nosing the wet ground while I listened to a favorite podcast on my phone. When that failed to soothe me, I switched over to music. In the past, listening to Marcus Mumford bare his soul through song has always helped to heal mine. Just as I felt my shoulders begin to relax, the music went silent. My phone was dead.

No matter. We kept on, Gus and I, our hike leading to unfamiliar territory. With no phone, no watch to mark time, we wandered about, stopping once so that I could close my eyes and Just. Breathe.

We walked aimlessly for a while, until I realized we were near my granddaughter’s soccer field. While I’d been to the field once to watch her play, I couldn’t recall how to get back to their house. I turned in what I thought was the right direction, and Gus and I walked on. Through a soggy meadow we walked. Entering a dark forest, we kept on. I began to wonder how long we’d been gone, began to wonder if those we’d left behind were getting worried about us. My anxiety growing, Gus and I emerged from the cover of the trees. We scrambled up a hill and into a familiar residential neighborhood, one we’d discovered a few weeks back. Certain I knew a shortcut, I turned right. And then left. And then right again.

We were definitely lost, my sense of direction seriously challenged. Whatever deviant developer created this neighborhood did so by placing the homes on roads forming a series of concentric circles. We couldn’t find our way out no matter which way we turned. I looked for someone, anyone, to ask for help. But no one, it seemed, was home in the middle of a cloudy, cold and ever-so-bleak Wednesday.

I felt my worry about other people worrying about us continue to grow. I felt anxious, foolish, tired, lost. But what I didn’t feel was fear, because I wasn’t alone. Gus was by my side. He needed me to get him home for dinner. I needed him to keep me safe while we walked. And what, really, was there to do but to move forward, and to keep on moving forward?

Finally, I saw a water tower that looked just like the one marking the beginning of our hike. Could it be the same one? It was. Gus and I set our sights on it, the high tower guiding our way. As we emerged from another thick grove of trees on the edge of the perverse, circuitous neighborhood, up ahead, we recognized homes making up my daughter’s more rationally designed neighborhood. Another ten minutes, and we were home. Sore, tired and muddy, with burrs up and down the fur on Gus’ back and burrs up and down my pants legs, we’d found our way. And I’d learned lessons, like never hiking without a fully charged phone, that would serve me well on our next hike. I’d like to believe Gus learned, if he didn’t know it already, that I’d always do my best to find our way, no matter what. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t quick, but we’d made it back. Together.

How, dear readers, are you finding your way home these days? What will help you to do so, and what won’t? How can we collectively support and protect those who are lost, or those who may soon find themselves to be lost?

How do we find our way back?