Although I beseech the heavens out loud, I’m always alone when I do this. Most often it’s after sundown and by the sea. I usually have an answer within the hour.
Jim was both reliable and punctual.
I’ve realized only relatively recently that I live with two species of of signs. One–the beckoned sign–tends to arrive noisily, often in the form of a song or a bird. (At least once, a hoped-for sign arrived in pre-printed logo form.) Sometimes it’s more subtle–a butterfly brushing my shoulder, a deer gently approaching.
Another kind of sign–which I now think of as discovered (though rediscovered might be more fitting)–is already in my reach. I just need a little nudge to recognize its provenance.
“Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
A strangely compelling Boardwalk Empire character–a World War I sharpshooter who carried his talents back to a morally complex civilian life during Prohibition–dispensed this worthwhile advice at an Easter gathering.
A fellow blogger whom I count as a cyber-friend writes movingly of her own life, love, and loss of a beloved mother. She wrote this morning that, surveying the bright colors of visible reminders of el dios de la muerte, she wishes she were “one of the haunted.”
She does not receive from her the mother the signals she hoped to receive–those elusive thin spaces in which she still can feel her presence.
After my husband Jim spoke of his diagnosis with pancreatic cancer, one of our friends looked at him–a young, outwardly robust, healthy man who betrayed no sign of illness, let alone such a devastating one–and said, with a hint of the abject disbelief we all felt, “The good kind or the bad kind?”