All who wonder are not lost. Except me last weekend.

We’ve only been here a couple of weeks and my son, Bill and I have already been out on some amazing adventures.  So far, my favorite place was this beautiful, small, neighborhood-of-my-dreams, in the boonies on top of a mesa, but less than 15 minutes out of town..

The kind of place you don’t just stumble on unless you’re willing to go past where you’d normally turn around.   The Missouri River was laid out below us like a long silver ribbon. Mountains further away…took my breath away….calm and steady. We hit it right at sunset. Hundreds of geese flying. Deer out for dinner. I stood there, quiet, and just let it fill me up, as the magnificent sun set behind us. 

I wanted Harold to see it too. Feel it. So on Sunday I said, “Let’s go for a little wander.” That’s the exact word I used…wander. I had the correct map in my head, or I thought I did. Follow lower River Road. Take a right after the red mailbox. Easy.

45 minutes later, I said the thing I didn’t want to say. “We’re lost.” I waited for the frustration to kick in. Honestly, a little part of me was already disappointed. I wanted to show him my new favorite place. Instead, I had us on a road that was seemingly going nowhere.  And then I said, “Turn here, that looks familiar.  Turns out it wasn’t.  But we followed the road anyway.

And the day became big, adventurous…and so much fun!

If you’ve ever been lost with the right person in the right situation, you know. The stress eases, and suddenly you start noticing things. Old homesteads that have been holding on for a hundred years or more. Crickety barns that lean a little but still stand. Fences that wander the way we were wandering. Rounded a curve and found new homes with wide porches, white trim, and those clean white fences around big, neat lots. The old and the new lived side by side, as if it were never a debate.

We saw horses doing what horses do…just standing regal or prancing around like a 7-year-old.  Cows pretending not to see us watching them. People caring for their goats, chickens, and sheep. Deer popping out for dinner, with no regard for us. 

The sky went full Montana. Puffy clouds that made the blue sky look bluer. The air in the high 50s…warm for this time of year…and I was grateful for it. We pulled over and stretched our legs. “Frolicked” is probably the right word, though I don’t use it often. We laughed about that. I took a breath that went all the way down to my tummy and stayed there a second.

None of this was the plan. I don’t always do things like that. I tend to be a list person. A check-it-off person. But this was way better. The road did what it wanted. We went along.

At some point, we turned on the navigation because I like getting lost until I don’t. We followed the calm little voice back toward town. Every mile still felt like part of the adventure. No wasted time. Just a different time.

We stopped for dinner. Nothing fancy. A quiet booth with a child who played peek-a-boo over the top. One drink. No rush. Harold told a story he’s told before, and I laughed again because I wanted to. He is comfortable when the world slows down, and I sometimes forget that. It was good to be reminded. We haven’t done this in awhile…sit, eat, talk about nothing important…and I missed it without knowing I missed it.

We drove home the back way. Not because it was faster. Because it felt good to keep the day going. The sky traded drama for a waning moon and a few stubborn stars. That’s my favorite kind of night sky…quiet enough that you have to actually look to see it.

We did the usual end-of-day stuff when we got home. Locked the door. Kicked off shoes. Sat close. We talked about the week ahead, but not like we were wrestling it. More like, “let’s be where we are and see what shows up.” That felt right, too.

There’s a lot going on in my life right now. New town. New patterns. Boxes still calling to be unpacked from the corner. It’s tempting to plan everything so I don’t feel the wobble. Sunday reminded me again that wobble isn’t the enemy. It’s just… movement. You can relax your grip a little and still get where you’re going. Maybe even somewhere better.

I also remembered why I like this man who chases dreams with me. He didn’t get flustered. He didn’t pull out a fix-it list. He just drove, joked, listened, and let the day be what it was. That mattered. We found beauty, awe, and each other again, and I don’t care if that sounds cheesy. It’s true.

So yes, all who wander are not lost. Except me, this weekend. And it was perfect. Not the perfect I would have planned…tighter, neater, right on schedule…but the kind that lets you breathe and look and be. I needed that more than I needed to be right about the turns.

We’ll go back to the mesa. We’ll stand where the geese cut across the last light and the river slides by, and those mountains act like they have all the time in the world. But I’m keeping this day too…the canyon, the river road, the old fences, the creeks that refused to be counted, the easy dinner, the drive home, the couch, the quiet.

I fell asleep grateful for getting lost. Grateful for a new place already giving me gifts. Grateful for the man next to me. Grateful for myself, too…because I didn’t try to force the map onto the day. I let the day lead.

Love is ALL there is. Sometimes it looks like a perfect view from a mesa at sunset. Sometimes it looks like a wrong turn that turns out to be exactly right.

Diana