Sometimes, it can be difficult to get quite to the heart of what feelings or experiences may be clouding judgement or impacting daily function. I don’t know if I (or anyone) really wants every aspect of their life settled on main street, available for anyone to come and observe and comment on. Some things are private.
Lately, I’ve found it difficult to explain the “why” behind this year’s major decisions without communicating too much in places that aren’t ideal. I don’t necessarily want to share lengthy social media posts — I’m reticent in those spaces and, as is clear, on this blog.
I also find it hard to describe the general flow of things when asked “is everything okay?” or version of “we haven’t talked in some time.” I fear, perhaps justifiably, that saying versions of my priorities have changed or I’m growing protective of my peace, pacing, and progress have negative ramifications for readers. They don’t quite get across the technological divide the way I wish they could.
A good metaphor, though? That eats on the blog.
Keys go missing sometimes
Early one morning — I don’t remember exactly which morning, but I know it was amid the weekday blur — there was a subtle change in the weight of my right front pocket.
The week had been among those months of more bleary marching from place to place, less clean moments, hunting for rest unintentionally. Something about the rush of days and shifting realities really made it possible to shift and crash from one day to the next. The idea of even feeling a change in weight seems like a victory in theses moments, and prompts a search.
These keys are weird, broken, distressed, necessary to survive, inescapable.
A change in weight aside, noticing the problem — the realization that the keys are missing and you don’t know where they are — feels manageable at this point. I mean, compared to the weeks before, this feeling is traceable, incurs no cost, a problem easily solved.
There’s no way they’re anywhere other than a reasonable location well within reach, right?
Keys are light, storm winds are heavy
Some part of me begins to mentally rework the moments that a key was last anywhere near my person. I imagine this is the first step: retracing your placement of the keys, those normative steps you take in your everyday life.
But the past few months have broken the mold. I haven’t quite settled in any one place. The sweatpants that snuggly held the key this week were tossed about, mixed with clean clothes and hangers on the couch, strewn across baskets that they should be held in. But that pair of sweatpants is still there.
So, I pick the pair of sweatpants up and flip the pockets inside out. Nothing, I mumble into the sweatpants. There’s nothing here. I guess it must be nearby though! I only use a few spaces.
This sparks the first detailed, intentional retracing of steps. A review of the landscape that I’ve normally transited but, as is clear, the landscape itself has changed. Reshaping of the space has occurred and, unfortunately, I don’t know the space the way I should.
Tables and chairs transform from fixed locations where phones and keys sit, replaced with unrecognizable papers, a sweatshirt that doesn’t belong here or there, a new project left unfinished on the counter. How long have these things been here? Since February?
Nevertheless, I search and the inside of the home reveals nothing. So, we travel into spaces that should be less controlled, but by way of absolute chaos feel more certain.
I walk out the front door of the building, marching along my normal path from door to car with a sense of confusion but resilience.
It’s definitely not ideal, but I imagine the keys may have fallen in the car. Maybe the batteries are dead or the near-broken key has taken it’s last breath.
Going to the car reveals more nothing. Something that should be relieving and clarifying, since a key inside is a key in a controlled, searchable space. I mean, the place I live in is finite.
But then I remember the faint beep of a car door moments before a storm and the same stress that brought tornadic activity into the home makes known its power outside the home.
Oh shit, I think, the damn key fell out of my pocket during a storm? No way.
Looking everywhere, but again and again
This panic of loss isn’t serious on its face, but it sparks the long, arduous process of retracing and reviewing and re-reviewing.
Instead of going through the house with a positive, forward looking, and conscious idea of where things could be. We’re stranded in a place we can’t quite navigate. We tried looking in this place once, but… maybe again?
Distance has meant fewer eyes on my every move for the worst here. Instead of a consistent flow that makes finding something possible, and the ease of treating this one incident as an outlier, we enter second full hour of searching.
It’s late, but I know that time is no longer in my control. The keys were just one inexpensive way to ensure that we could work and eat and navigate the world. The keys just opened doors and started engines when there was time to rest and review.
We aren’t at that time.
So, I oscilate. In and out of memories of the week, trying to determine where the flow broke, how I broke it, what control I have of the space.
Do it again.
The couch is up in the air for a second time now. Time has marched forward but… we can’t necessarily read the time any more, can we? The clock is now an additional stressor on which no good can be found.
Shelves, bags, trash bags, plants, pets, blankets, beds, all overturned in search of a small, seemingly insignificant thing. Something that likely blew away hours before you were even awake and thinking I just need to grab a bite to eat.
Progress and decisions in quiet spaces
I suddenly realize, in the course of this search, that the reason why I wanted to leave is lost. Instead, the stress of the search has bled into every other conceivable part of home and life and success. I’m planning not ways to solve a problem, but ways to work around the problem for the long haul.
We’ve been searching for days now, and no problem has been solved.
It becomes apparent just how detrimental the shifting nature of sleep has been, how real sickness is, and just how awful the world feels. I have this moment of touching my face and questioning a tear or two, maybe three, a flowing stream at this point. There was never a plan to cry and there is no real crying happening.
Every call, it seems, simply gets an okay. Every sharp dagger or harmful phrase feels less sharp because hey, you still haven’t found your keys.
That core problem, that small incident, isn’t the last straw. It’s the 61st last straw standing atop a series of perceived wasted opportunities and time sucking marches toward an appearance of stability. The notion and near facade of calm and collected approaches to existence falls because… well… because your house fell out of order long before.
If the keys appeared at this point, I know they wouldn’t matter. I think, if anything, I’d break the key in half. It has wasted my time in a moment of weakness, it has driven me to literal days of fruitless hunting, it has meandered through waking thoughts, it has chosen to embody failure despite my constant fight.
At this point, all solutions have a cost. All are justified costs because I, for reasons good and bad, neglected this minor thing. Yes, others may have the resources to immediately attach a tracker to their keys or the money to pay for a spare key they keep in their home. Yes, I moved to do that exact thing the moment the opportunity availed itself. That doesn’t make the key any more or less of a problem.
The solution is simple: call someone. Get another key. Move forward knowing what happened and don’t let it happen again. Create a series of guideposts to avoid the problem in the future, pay the cost now as I am able. Acknowledge what I can afford and that this problem is not among those that I can afford to relive.
That’s exactly what we do.
Why put all this here?
Without going too deep, I’ll say losing the keys is a deceptively simple way to share a bunch of feelings I have had over the past few months. Some I just don’t have the linguistic skills to explain, others I’m trying to put into words.
Among those things that stood out to me were persistence, pressure, and progress.
Persistence is normally one of those qualities that I hear lauded and praised rather than abhorred, but I fear that persistence is easy to take advantage of. One of my colleagues reminded me of that double edged word in the notion of the “eager beaver” who is so excited to do so much but… maybe shouldn’t.
The key strikes me as a negative notion of persistence in part because I don’t come away knowing who has the key.
If someone else was holding onto the key, ignoring my call for help, or taking advantage of my misfortunate loss to their gain without consideration for my situation, I would be livid at that person, not just my carelessness. My carelessness is there, but it isn’t the core problem.
Pressure comes from the key as an access point to stability and security. Loosing a key isn’t just losing something that I can go without for a few days, it is losing access to a privilege fought for and used in service of others. The key is trips to doctors offices, the workplace, the schoolhouse, the grocery store… it turns an already exhausting commuting day into one that is, at the very least, shorter.
The key also provides access to one of few solitary places between places. It is where music is played and processing occurs and snacks are hastily eaten.
Unfortunately, the key having these purposes is too much power for a single item to have.
Progress is realizing that the action created the opportunity for such an error to occur. That I am responsible for allowing the chance for any such challenges to arise and that, in creating the problem, I must work toward a solution without the world at large.
I also realize that progress is recognizing that someone else likely has the key. Whether or not they intended that harm, the harm is most definitely real. Part of ensuring progress is taking and keeping close the key, removing the power someone has to spark days of discontent.
Finally, it is a chance to recognize just how much more challenging it can be to find the key when there is no order or consistency. When I lost the original key, I was struggling to uncover and overturn every part of the home. I spent some time considering feasible, then unfeasible, then outlandish locations, but spent far less time doing the work to clean and reorganize the home along the way.
I was so focused on primary objective of finding the key that I didn’t expend enough energy preparing a place for the key. I didn’t intentionally work through the items that made this search that much more difficult.
Now is the time to reassess the broader environment I’ve constructed, remove the challenges that contributed to this loss, and rebuild said environment.
A conclusion of sorts
I believe wholeheartedly that this post is among those thoughts I want to return to and ruminate on. I also believe that it subtly acknowledges some underlying ‘why’ when it comes to changes I’ve made to my social, professional, and personal life.
In short: As my wick burned and I finally crashed out, I realized just how much solitary work I need to do. I like operating publicly and appreciate the communities I’ve built, but I find previous decisions to be more akin to searching for keys and less contributions to rebuilding the house.
If anything, the home rebuilding is something that needs to be done alone. Internal, professional, and personal projects are things I best complete in solitude or, in the very rare cases, alongside trusted partners.
I don’t think anyone is quite in that position of trusted partner, though some have begun to enter that orbit.
Most, instead, are people who I’d like to welcome into spaces when they’re ready. I care so deeply about everyone (truly to my detriment, at times) but power has so rarely been mine to wield. This post is an acknowledgement of taking that power back and, perhaps most critically, developing a sense of authentic, consistent internal unity.
Before I go…
Since this is a blog post, and I’ll likely revise and rethink this post, don’t be surprised by confusion or thoughts left unfinished. You’re reading a bit of my life in a way that I feel is most accessible without making every aspect of my life public. I appreciate your understanding.
A while ago, I saw an increase in emails about returning to a media podcast or project of sorts. That project is a new professional priority that you are welcome to take part in by visiting What We Know Now.
For the foreseeable future, WWKN will serve as the place for a great majority of my digital media projects with limited exceptions. This blog will stay a repository for the personal and prosaic, but avoid meandering into regular media commentary outside the extremely personal.
I hope you like the new digs — I did a bit of updating around the blog and really love the space. Way more curation, permanence, and control than I get from Meta, X, Snapchat, and the like.
Those places are getting pretty scary now! Gotta be safe and protect your peace, fren!
— Ivy A. Lyons
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