It is pronounced: map. One syllable with proper push of “pppp” at the end.
Or atlas, if you’re lucky to have a gathering of many.
They can be found in glove compartments in automobiles and in backpacks, folded neatly like an intricate fan of coordinates.
Lately, it can also be found with a mouthpiece, titled GPS. A rotation of satellites orbiting in the sky– when positioned correctly– can let you know whether you need to make a left or right or….
RECALCULATING….
On a road trip many years ago, in a subaru hatchback with enough room in the back for a foam mattress, there was no voice letting us know how to get to where we needed to go. We dug out a rand mcnally and leafed through pages that could have been called art. When we got lost, we stopped somewhere and asked for directions. Conversed with locals and breathed in the air of new (to us) land.
Then, we weren’t reliant on fancy phones guiding our every move.
Then, there was no contraption plugged into car to dictate our route.
Then, adventures felt more FREE form.
We have forgotten how to get lost. We dig out our lovers from left or right pocket, swipe in several directions to get us where we need to go.
We don’t wander as much.
Some don’t wander at all.
I am detached from a GPS. I carry around tiny pieces of paper with tiny shards of ink curled in, with my directions, that I carefully looked up. But if I get lost, I ask those around me who are attached. Or…I allow myself to wander until I really need to be where I need to be.
You are ****here******.
But maybe you can get there a little slower. Leave earlier next time and give yourself extra room for wandering. Slice in a little escapade into your day.
You may be surprised by your ability to go a few more minutes, even hours without the help of your palm pilot.
Aimee Herman 