When asked to write about the experience of a
lost object, I thought it would be a trivial task of jotting down some long forgotten
recollections concerning a beloved item. After several attempts at writing down these
memories, I found the results pathetic. I suspect I don’t have much emotional
attachment to physical objects. Sure, I become upset if I can’t find something that I
need or want. I certainly feel victimized when I find that someone has stolen the snow
shovel from my front porch. "Who on earth would steal a snow shovel?" I wonder.
"They really must need it worse than me to be that desperate." The knot in my
stomach slowly turns into curiosity as I consider the fate of my shovel. Is it in a pawn
shop somewhere? Did someone take it so they could make a little money shoveling sidewalks.
Could anyone resourceful enough to be a thief also be industrious enough to earn money by
shoveling? Maybe it isn’t quite so sinister, and it’s part of a school
child’s prank. Somewhere, someone else may be thinking "What crazy nut left
their snow shovel on my front porch?" Perhaps my lack of connection to objects is a
defense to living in an urban center.
My great sense of loss doesn’t come from missing a
physical object, but the loss of alternative possibilities. Possibilities that were never
really possessed and therefore could not actually be lost. Two years ago I had an
opportunity to attend graduate school. I was very fortunate to have been accepted by not
one, but by three equally good graduate programs. It was a difficult choice. I found
myself struggling not over which curriculum would offer me the most education, but that by
choosing one school I had to give up the other two possible outcomes. I was devastated and
depressed by the luxury of having such choices. In each case, as I imagined how great it
would be to attend any given school, I would juxtapose what I would have missed out on at
the other two locations. I am aware that what I desire is an impossibility, to experience
the outcomes of all available choices. Sometimes, I am surprised that I don’t get
bogged down in the mundane choices like choosing breakfast cereals. At least not all
choices have life changing repercussions, or rather, I don’t believe that all choices
are so loaded. I think that the simple act of meeting a new acquaintance or locating a
mentor can fundamentally change who you are. If I imagine that at each location there
would be (or not) someone or some event that would mold my thinking, and that I could
experience each of those events and then arrange to have those ‘virtual’ Gwens
to get together at some time in the future. What would they have to say to each other? The
idea scares me. Could I be jealous of myself? Would I want to have had the experience that
another part of myself did get to enjoy? Would one Gwen have become wildly more or less
successful than the others? Where does that leave the remaining Gwens? I think it might be
better to grieve the lost possibility and get on to enjoying the choice than to live with
the problems of having to face yourself with the alternate outcomes.
