Not all who wander are lost. But some are.
At 21-years-old, I was in Florence, Italy with wonderful written Italian comprehension, terrible spoken Italian comprehension, and a lot of uncertainty. I remember wandering around the city—lost—passing hanging lights and street vendors that surely I’d passed before.
I met an older Italian woman. She wasn’t impressed with my Italian and she didn’t offer English. German, I asked. Spanish, she countered.
It became evident that we weren’t going to get very far with words. And yet still, we knew enough to understand one another. And so we ambled along together for a while. Smiling. Laughing. Gesturing.
In hindsight, I don’t know why. I don’t know what prompted us to spend 15 minutes on a January evening together. I don’t remember why we hugged when we said goodbye or at what point of our walk we even decided we should say goodbye.
Oh, that night I was lost alright. Lost and without a working cell phone. Lost without a plan or a sense of direction.
I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I didn’t know who I wanted to be. I didn’t know what I was going to do next.
And somehow, in that mix of emotions no language could define, there was peace.
Not all who wander are lost, surely. But some are deliciously lost. And there is beauty in that.