Synchronicities and Signs

 Lately, I get signs everywhere I go - repeated patterns offered to me by the world, messages from something outside me, often clear as a bell.

I have weeks where I see bald eagles all the time, even over the freeway on the way to work, and one week not one but two of them (on different occasions) swooped down low over my car, making me shrink back in my seat behind the steering wheel, glancing up in amazement and then giggling once the shock had passed. Power. Joy. Possibility.

And then there are weeks when everywhere I go I see feathers. Foot long black and white ones on the beach, coming in with the tide. Sleek crow feathers on every block. A beautiful pure white feather, at least eight inches long. Feathers on the ground, feathers drifting toward me in the wind. A reminder to be light, to keep it light? To let dreams take wings?

For years, I've found more four leaf clovers than just about anyone. I think about a friend who is having a problem, or my own wishes, and I make a wish, then look down... and four leaf clovers appear. When I've said this to friends they have often said, "uh huhhh, suuuuuure" until I've said "give me a minute to show you!" and they they've watched me find them their own four leaf clovers. Surely, this is a sign of my own good fortune.

And then I read a book that had hints of the book I'm working on, and, quite surprised, I thought, "Oh! There IS a market for this!" I don't know why I picked up that book, it wasn't what I was looking for, but then... there it was, a message clear as day.

And then the right person comes at the right time, with the right words.

And just when I thought that I wouldn't know how to pay for Tessa's fifth year of college, a job opportunity.... teaching creative writing! ... on top of my regular contract just dropped into my lap. Presto, college paid for, and now I'm being paid to research and teach creative methods. Fabulous!

I'm getting used to seeing the signs, to noticing the synchronicities. I'm on week 10 of The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, and she suggests that creatives look for them, look for the signs of the Universe sending messages...

... and the messages keep appearing.

The question is not if they are real. The question is, will I pay attention?

Dear Hugo

 Actually, not so dear Hugo.

This afternoon I was working on the patio at my local coffee shop (shout out to C&P, best coffee shop ever) and someone sat down nearby with a sweet dog, so of course I visited. Said sweet dog was, apparently, named Hugo, and he was quite dear.

But it was also rather synchronous, because for the last week I've been thinking about writing about a different Hugo. Thanks, canine Hugo, for the tail wags and soft fur... and for the reminder to pick up my damn laptop and write some more.

So here it is: not so dear Hugo.

When I first got divorced, I worked for a small jeweler doing business development. It was the perfect job, and a terrible job. Perfect, because the hours were right and I could (barely) squeak by on the pay; perfect because it was my re-entry to the workforce after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom and (simultaneously) a cancer patient. It wasn't perfect because I have no business working for a retailer, or in jewelry - these are not my passions! - but perfect because I had the skills somehow to grow the small business, so I was successful in this first foray; perfect because I got to dress up and go downtown and remember who I was when I wasn't a mom.

It was also perfect for downtown coffee dates, and when I first started back at work I was also doing my first dating. It was a wild scene: I was in my early 40s, fit, and happier than I'd been in a long, long time and I found lots of people who wanted to go out with me. I'd put on my heels and dress and go to work, but sometimes take my lunch break early for coffee and walk around the corner to meet some internet stranger to see if there was a love match.

Hugo was one of these, and I have not changed his name to protect either of us. Although he didn't give me butterflies and he wasn't a supermodel, this was fine with me because I'm also not a supermodel, and he was attractive enough. He wore Clark Kent glasses - and I'm a sucker for Clark Kent glasses. He seemed to have his life together, and as I was oh-so-eager to be with someone who had it together, I agreed to meet with him when he asked me out.

We went to a donut shop, even though I'm not really into donuts (give me a cupcake over a donut any day of the week!), and I wore a cute skirt and work appropriate heels. We placed our order and he insisted on paying, but my stomach sank when I noticed that he didn't leave a tip on our donuts and coffee order. I quickly said, "I'll pay the tip - no problem!" and the first giant red flag was when he said, "They just gave us donuts. They don't need a tip."

The person I am now would have smiled, said, "It's not a fit," and walked away. The person I was then was mortified, but didn't know how to say so, and even though the date was already doomed, determined to try. I didn't talk about minimum wage or restaurant wages, and I didn't say "if we can afford donuts, we can afford to tip" - I bit back my tongue.

We did the usual small talk, interviewing each other for the basics of our lives. Him: no kids; me, one kid. We both worked downtown. Both of us divorced. He started grilling me on my career, and I explained the Microsoft to teaching to stay-at-home-mom-cancer-patient, and then this recent foray into the jewelry business. He visibly recoiled, and said, "If people haven't figured it out by 40, they're never going to figure it out," and the date was over not that long afterwards. (Almost over. I excused myself to put a $5 bill in the tip jar before we walked out and went our separate ways, never to speak to each other again.)

That was a decade ago, I think. I haven't thought of it much, because it was just another anecdote for dating stories with my girlfriends ("He didn't tip? THE WORST!") but not terribly important in the scheme of things - back then I was going on at least one date per week with someone new, and his was a half hour annoyance, not important.

But something about it stuck with me - I can't remember the other random dates with much clarity, but I still remember the look on his face as he informed me that I was a Loser who would Never Figure It Out or become someone... because it's clear that is what he meant.

A bit of me was sure he was right. Back then I joked that my car was held together 'with duct tape and hope' and even when I was pretending to myself otherwise I knew there was no way I was destined to be part of the jewelry business long term. I was on the razor edge of my budget, barely getting by, one missed check away from losing everything. I was scared most of the time, but I hid the fear under bravery (an effective technique - I recommend it).

And for some reason, I remembered him recently, and I thought...

He's wrong.

He was wrong then, and he is wrong now.

As I recall, he had a career that sounded dull to me, and his entire affect was one of someone going through the drudgery of life - there were no hints of joy, no inside jokes, no hints at passions of his own. He did seem to have stability, and cute glasses... but that is all.

I've spent the last decade without much of a thought of him, but now he's back in my head, and... he's wrong.

A friend of mine escaped a terrible marriage at the same time I did, and now she's doing work that the whole nation is paying attention to. Another friend of mine, divorced at the same time as well, went from having a thin business in a down economy, to being top of her field. Another friend just left her career to go back to grad school, and another friend decided to retire early.

And me? I'm writing for real this time, and I'm so settled into my teaching career that provides the joy and stability that I wanted so much when I first got divorced. I travel sometimes, and when I eat out it doesn't kill my entire budget. I don't wear heels to work... ever. Because I don't want to, and because I'm not dressing for the male gaze anymore, and no longer believe that in order for shoes to be cute they have to hurt like hell and hobble me. (In the zombie apocalypse, women in stilettos will be the first to die, I think.)

I'm 55, and there are some things where I'm just getting started. I've had the same house for a long time, and I got rid of the duct-tape car and drive something that's held together with... well, whatever cars are supposed to be held together with! I host dinner parties and I save for retirement and I love the heck out of my kid even when she's hours away at college (bursting with pride that she's getting closer to graduation).

I don't date much at all anymore, because I can't be bothered to spend time with guys like Hugo, and I don't need external validation that I'm a good person and worthy, so the idea of dating a different guy every week in order to find "the one" is exhausting and a hard pass. I'd rather spend time with friends, or down on my favorite beach, or making jewelry (the costume kind, and not for sale, just to be creative), or planning a trip.

Hugo was wrong. I'm my best self, a million times version of the me he met back then. My hair has a streak of silver, my belly is softer, and it's been a long time since I ran a half marathon... but in the ways that count, my life is better. I *did* figure a lot out after that silly date. I went to therapy, I found my career path again, I sent my kid to college. I remodeled my basement.... and I did some important work on managing my relationships with my family of origin, which is its own kind of basement remodel.

I floated on the Ligurian Sea at Cinque Terre, not a care in the world.

There are all kinds of deadlines we set for ourselves, and our lives. Graduate from college in four years. (Research says that it used to take 4-5 years on average, but now it's 6 years on average.) Get married by 30. (I did it a week before my 30th birthday, and I sometimes wonder if I'd been more patient then what would my life have been like, what would  my marriage have been like?) Put a million dollars in the bank (um, I'm still waiting for that). Work at one employer until you die (uh - no). Have a size four body, have 2.1 children, retire by 60. No, no, no.

Nobody I know did all of those things. The deadlines are utterly arbitrary. Sure, it's nice if you can do it (that million dollars in the bank would be very convenient!)... but it's not real.

Hugo didn't know that frequent belly laughter is a better metric.

Chosen family at any age.

Stacks of good books available 24/7.

Tickets to an event that you're excited to attend, always another one coming.

Dancing at a concert under the stars several times a summer.

Picnics near the ocean in all seasons.

Farmers markets every week.

A kid who visits often from college.

And long, long lists of dreams that I'm still chasing.

Hugo was wrong, about all of it. I saw him on a dating app a year ago - I guess he hasn't found anyone who measured up yet. But then - nor have I, and somehow that seems okay, because if I have to choose my own company or the company of someone who doesn't leave a tip for the kids selling donuts...

I'd choose my own company, gleefully, every time.

I'm glad that I still believe in the power of my dreams. I'm working on a bunch of them again, and I think I'll make them happen - after all, I've already made lots of dreams come true, so why not these? I'm just getting started - but now I have a lovely foundation to build upon!

Poor Hugo - our paths will never cross again, and I'm the better for it. I did like dog Hugo a lot, though, and I hope I run into him again.