Ruled by Coincidence
On a long enough timeline, I can convince myself that everything makes sense. I see how A swiftly moves into B and how B connects with C. Dot for dot I trace my every movement and every decision to form a linear version of myself. The older I get the more I believe in the power of fate and less so in the power of controlling my destiny. That’s not to say that I don’t have agency. I do. I have agency and I have intent and I have choice. However, the universe conspires to lead me into its fullest and most beautiful vision of myself. The universe is benevolent. In the moment, things often feel unclear and uncertain until I look for the signs and symbols around me. I read them and analyze them but often I’m left with just a need to trust that I’m going down the path I’m meant to. It can be challenging to let go. The future is scary because it is so unknowable.
Every year the trees and flowers bloom. That is knowable. No matter how tight of a grasp darkness and the cold has on us, buds still appear eventually. On my walks down Atlantic Avenue towards Prospect Park I marvel at the trees. I stop. I look up. I stare. I see how neatly these flowers are arranged on the branches, how their leaves envelop and protect them. I see how the light shines on them with their petals casting the tiniest of shadows. I see how these flowers flutter in the wind as if one day hoping to take flight. Sometimes they fall. Other times they’re swept in the gentle breeze adventuring farther out than they’ve ever known. They are me and I am them. We are reborn again and again.
Fate has weakened my heart. In the frigid winter with numb hands and breath visible only for the tiniest of moments, I found a burning romance. One that felt destined — an orbiting kind of romance where my decisions and his led us to circle round and round until we inevitably collided. The romance brought me internal warmth that radiated outwards for others to see as well. Now, when I retread the streets of our neighborhood, all I see are ghosts. The ghosts are me and him. Here we are at the end of my street sharing our first awkward kiss. Here we are sitting on a park bench discussing how we can’t be together anymore. Here we are in the subway station holding hands, his palm gently filling mine as if it were always meant to be there. Here he is on the other side of the window pane diligently writing in his journal as I observe him in his solitude. Here I am combing the shelves of a bookstore, he observing me in my solitude. Over there is the cafe where we first snatched glances of one another in the summer, unaware that our faces imprinted in each other’s memory. The constellation of our romance remains with me everywhere I go, its light reaching me across time and only shining brightly in the past.
I try not to get too caught up in the what ifs. These are ghosts as well—the potential half formed possibilities of what could have been. What if the cafe Dan and I initially wanted to visit wasn’t full and we went there instead, would all of that romance even have happened? What if I didn’t go to Greece the weeks prior, would my life still have felt filled with potential? What if I never tried talking to strangers the months before, would I still have been so brave? What if I never started working out years ago, would I still have been as confident? I can conjure these ghosts in my imagination and try to architect their paths, but I’ll never succeed because they were never meant to be.
I am blind to the future ghosts. These are the versions of me that have yet to exist but are destined to walk these paths. Maybe a wormhole will open up between the two of us, present and future, where I can look back and marvel at what I used to be and find inspiration looking forward towards what I will be. The universe, the author of our life’s novel, leaves clues and hints for us instead. Here and there we’ll glimpse something that sparks our soul, that resonates with us, that emits light and assurance. Like the flowers and leaves shifting their position to move towards the sun, so too does my soul shift towards the light of infinite possibility.
In literature classes, we talked about the collective unconsciousness: the oceanic abyss inside ourselves in which our creativity, energy, and being originate. Across mythologies we share stories and symbols — archetypes and journeys. Yet, to each other and ourselves, we seem unknowable. To know yourself is to plunge the depths, to illuminate all versions of yourself, to marvel at your alluring design, to forgive yourself of past mistakes, and to let go of judgment and control. To know another is a greater challenge. The space between us is the beautiful mystery. We have to share ourselves to pull ourselves closer together, our bonds like magnets reinforced with love, empathy, and mutual respect.
One day I asked my soul what it wants. What are you destined for? What do you want to be? What is your purpose? It responded in a quiet, distant, and muffled voice: to love and be loved. My soul yearns. I responded back: isn’t that everyone’s purpose? My soul continued: what more could you want? I yearn, too. In order to love and be loved I need to express myself. Inside of me I see this tranquil reservoir of creativity and self-expression but a large boulder blocks access. Slowly, I’ve been chipping away, gravel falling into the reservoir, disturbing the surface for the first time in many, many years. My soul exists in those depths. My soul has sat in that dark and cold cave waiting for its chance to be free. It wants to find its way back to me and reenergize my heart.
I’ve always felt self-conscious about my writing and created so many excuses and reasons as to why I could never call myself a writer. I wrote academic essays and personal essays like these newsletters, but I could not write fiction. Years ago, when I still believed in my innate creativity, I took a Creative Writing class at UConn. I was excited about the possibility of writing more, inventing stories that took inspiration from my own life, to paint with a new set of materials for all to see. The class was disastrous. Everything I had written wasn’t good enough for the instructor. In hindsight, I just did not have the mental capacity to do these assignments. I would procrastinate and try to cram my creativity onto the page in the early hours of the morning. I never edited. I wrote and assumed what I had done was inherently above and beyond. I still see myself sitting in that desk, always on the far right side, underneath the windows. I distinctly remember the faces of my peers circling around. My instructor looms large in the center of the room. I couldn’t write fiction for years after that, the memory of the class still sitting so solidly in front of my reservoir of self-expression.
Things began to change in the fall when I signed up for a writing class. I was blocked from writing stories and knew I had to do something to jump start any motivation to write. My soul yearned to be expressed. I needed to listen. I hesitated for weeks on whether I should sign up for the class. I worried about the cost and the time I would need to commit to write. I was already stretched thin. I thought I wouldn’t have stories to produce. I wouldn’t have a strong point of view or anything interesting to say. I was my own worst enemy. I’m glad I signed up. I found a lot of success writing in the class. I opened myself up to possibility. A lot of artists will tell you the key to art is listening. You listen to the world around you; you take inspiration from what you see and what you experience. The universe wants to be seen and expressed and artists are the vehicles. We are creations creating endlessly.
The short story I was the most proud of was also the one that was most personal to me. I listened to the artists before me. No longer was I passively moving through the world. I was a receptor of all that was around me, intent on channeling what I perceived. Inspiration came after a day at the MET. We walked through the Manet/Degas exhibit. I was struck by the friendship of the two artists, the lengths Degas went to preserve the art and memory of Manet after his untimely death, and I envisioned a story from it. With the memories I held of the person I was with (the way his eyes reflected light, the way he went about the world, the way I was so drawn into the mystery of him) and the inspiration of the lives of these artists, I crafted a story for the first time since college. I blended the universe and created something entirely new. I started to finally understand my purpose.
The last few months for me have been tumultuous — many facets of my life (romantic, platonic, family, health, work, etc.) moved so quickly I haven’t had time to process. I’m tired. I want some quieter time to myself. I want to retreat into myself and nurture the wounds I feel. I’ve been escaping into literature more, consuming novels that spark my interest and ones I gravitate towards for no reason other than the universe is telling me to read them. To clear my foggy and cluttered mind, I’ve stayed off social media. I am just now starting to write more but privately to myself in my journal. I am trying to uncover what still holds me back and talk to myself with introspection, care, and without judgment. My workout routines have kept me steady. I’ve even started to run more, finding the rhythmic nature of it all (my feet hitting the treadmill, my breath flowing in and out, my heart beating and beating) to be soothing. I still go on walks to the park. I still observe the world around me. I still stop and look up at the trees. The sun’s light and warmth reinvigorates me. These are all acts of self-love.
I’m holding onto my solitude. This peace is a precious gift before I blossom into someone changed. I am present. Everything will make sense one day. This is all just a paragraph in a great story. I’m sure of it.