The Universe Also Winks

I felt a small bug crawling on my back inside my t-shirt.  Tick, I feared, whipping an arm over my shoulder.  Only one finger could reach far enough to extract the creature expediently.  A procedure it did not survive.  

Turns out it was a ladybug.

I apologized that my lack of composure led to this unfortunate outcome.  

Perhaps to remind me of my thoughtlessness, or to balance the scale in some way, when, a short time later, I went to move my tractor, it wouldn’t start.  House calls by the tractor fixit team are spendy, and can take a week to happen. 

Then, perhaps to remind me of the universe’s infinite compassion for knuckleheads, a friend much savvier than I showed up and said he bet it was a weak battery and took it upon himself to get it charged.  

Turns out he was right.  

The universe is always talking to me, always encouraging me to pay attention, to make the most loving choice I can.  True for us all, I suspect.  Even if we’re unaware of it.  Each moment and event, each thought and feeling, bears with it that invitation.  

The death of Justice Ginsberg, for instance.  She, an excellent example of being mindful of the choices we make.  Perhaps especially our choice of what personal integrity means to us, that great shaper of destiny. 

How her death speaks to me distinctly is that it occurred on the day I became the owner of the home that is a symbol of my life without my beloved.  So much of my future in this home is unimaginable because my beloved won’t be part of it.  At least not in the way she had been for our 45 years together prior to her suicide.

On one level my life never changes.  Deepening my conscious attunement to Spirit is my sole intention.  Of course, doing so while being chased by a grizzly bear is a whole different adventure than playing ping-pong with the Dalai Lama––not that I speak from personal experience on either count.

The experience I can speak from is the dismembering of the part of my life that does change––my worldly life.  Specifically, the continual, dramatic disappearance of one familiar after another.

Chief instigators include my beloved’s emotional wasteland leading to her death; my need to leave the mountain wilderness I’ve lived on for a quarter century; the creation of a new home in a new town on a new dirt road with new neighbors.  And to do all this, solo, well into my eighth decade, whatever that will mean.  Dislike isn’t my response, but honoring my life’s purpose requires a fresh infusion of passion, patience, and managing fear.

Thank goodness the universe is always talking to me, sometimes in ways outlandishly beautiful.  

Such as.

Dear, my beloved, and I met in 1974 in Westfield, Massachusetts.  I was 31.  In two seconds I fell in love with her in one of those, “Oh, so you’re who I’ve been waiting for” strokes of destiny.  So I take as a good sign that the home I said yes to purchasing in 15 minutes (this past 4th of July, and will become my residence on Halloween) happens to be located in Westfield, Vermont. 

Still, the move has been, not exactly traumatic, but unsettling for many reasons, not least that I must assess my every possession and determine the next chapter in its existence.  Downsizing has become my middle name.  Plus, I live with a permanent hole in my heart, if not my head, causing an occasional wonder about my decision-making.  Who buys a house in 15 minutes?  

Well, recently, a dear young friend and sharp gardener (who, if Dear had had a biological child, this woman would be her) helped me uproot a large lemon thyme plant from Dear’s garden where I presently live and prepare its transport up the road to Westfield the next day.  And because she is a rich appreciator of divine synchronicity, I told her the story of the two Westfields.  

She said, you know, there is a famous apple that was discovered in Westfield, Massachusetts in the 19th century.  Some experts claim it is one of America’s premier apples.  Its name is “Westfield Seek No Further.” 

The universe not only talks to us, sometimes it also winks, and pats us on the fanny.