| | | | | |
A post for a long-time reader who requested one at lunch today.
I remember sitting in the library in elementary school thumbing through an old copy of classic Greek myths, always finding my way to the comfort of an origin story: destiny ordained as the three sisters unwound each mortal's thread at the moment of birth, snipping it where they may. Last year my decidedly non-mystical mother called to tell me that she'd had a premonition that the man I was meant to be with would find me, and that I wouldn't have to do anything to find him. She'd been so struck by the clarity of the notion that she'd stopped eating dinner to tell her companion, and then me. This was the most radical thing I'd ever heard. There is no element of my life that I have not managed or conjured into being through careful planning or unstoppable intent. So what to do? Relax. Let it happen. For my birthday, my best friend and I had intuitive readings. "You'll be alone all summer," she said, firmly, as my hopes dimmed. "But then, at the end of the year... there's someone. He's going to persist, he's going to pursue you." There were other little signifiers, glinting like mismatched tokens on a charm bracelet. I was amused, and optimistic and took it in stride. A few months later, a novelist known for his prowess with tarot cards brought them to a dinner party and did a reading after midnight, and dessert. My ears pricked up when I realized he had pulled the exact same card. "He's aware of you, but you're not yet aware of him." It's December, and every step has a little stardust in it, a secret smile, a fairy bell twinkling a distant song: is this it? is this it? is this it? I exhale, and relax.