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I was a travelin’ woman last week. One morning I went for a walk in my sister’s neighborhood. The air smelled like Eau’ de  Cochon. Sounds really pretty, but it is French for the smell of pig shit! My sister has some porcine domiciles (pig barns) on their farm , which house some 4000 pigs when they are fully occupied. The air on that morning was more like a hint of pig so I actually found it comforting,  it was a smell from my childhood. The rub is, of course,  the excrement has to be hauled away and spread on the fields at some point.  Luckily, this is not a  weekly task. OMG, the smell  the next night was awful, burning and nauseating. The short run from the car to the house almost required a gas mask. The smell of money as Iowans say. If you survive it to collect your money! 

Did you know that smell is one of our most powerful senses and has a direct connection to the brain? Smells ignite powerful memories and influence our mood and behaviors.  My poor mother got a bottle of Evening in Paris every year for Christmas, because when we were kids that’s the only perfume Wessels Variety store stocked. Our Christmas shopping venues were very limited. It is featured in the American Museum of History so check it out. It was discontinued in 1969,  but I wish I had the bottle which was  a beautiful dark blue. I could find a place to display it in my home. Moms’ wore perfume and red lipstick so Evening in Paris it was. I wonder how much it cost then? A whiff of “Old Spice”and I’m with my Dad in a nano second. He’s holding my small hand in his large calloused hand and we’re walking along. I loved that scent and still do, it’s a classic.  I smell it with my heart.

Do young people today know the smell of pepto-bismal pink bubble gum or root beer barrels candy? I think they may be smell deprived, except of course for the smell of coffee. Now that’s a  smell that evokes strong positive feelings for most of us. We remember sitting with friends or family drinking coffee  or brewing a morning  cup at our campsite. Coffee shops thrive because coffee tastes great, but mainly because it’s an excuse to sit and talk. It’s a place where people congregate and share thoughts and feelings. There’s little distractions, it’s just coffee and us. People who say, “Why would I go out and get a cup of coffee when I can make one at home?” just don’t get it at all! I kinda feel sorry for them. In my opinion, if you put a good coffee shop in the middle of the dessert people would find it and hang out there. It seems coffee is a good excuse to come together and be human. We need help to do that in our world that seems so very random and often painful. Coffee shops and world peace! Now that’s a wonderful slogan.

Of course, there’s always those awful smells that bring us back to memories and places we may not want to be. If I catch a whiff of something that smells a bit like the bottle of mag citrate  used to do a colonoscopy prep, I’m immediately sick to my stomach and desperate to get away from it. A dirty diaper smell is not pleasant, but we are certainly encouraged to change it and make baby and others around more comfortable. We care for our fellow humans by keeping them clean when they can’t do it themselves. What’s that bad smell? The smell of “clean” ,like Lysol, is not exactly wonderful, but we like it a lot because it helps us get rid of bad smells. Bad smells give us a lot of information and can save our lives at times…the smell of gas, the smell of fire, a skunk, a stink bug…rotten eggs….sour milk and ad nauseum.  However, a bit of caution is needed so we don’t over- sanitize our world. We need to be exposed to some germs and we need smells for our noses to smell. The cloying scent of some smells, created  to cover-up natural smells, can be too smelly!

Pepe le Pew, a very cute cartoon skunk,  is one of my favorite characters from my childhood. He was French and liked to wrap females in his arms,profess his love for them by declaring “My Cherie” and trying to plant a big kiss on them. I was too young to know about sexual harrassment…. He smelled like a skunk so his paramours resisted him. It was kinda touching how oblivious he was.  So I’d like to remind you how important smells are and ask you, “ Do you smell that?” 

This week there was a blip on my medical radar. I didn’t see it coming, seemed like all of a sudden it was just there. I was tested in the ER for this and that and told to follow up with a specialist, because they felt they had ruled out life threatening  causes. But of course I could get hit by a bus, and that would really be a moot point. Now, I’m feeling much better physically, but I haven’t returned to my usual emotional equilibrium. I think being sick or injured uncovers a lot of fears and vulnerabilities, and there is nothing flattering or dignified about hospital gowns.

There is a silly song from Tiny Tim that was popular during my teen years, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”.  It seems the tulips were overrun with thistles when I wasn’t  looking, but I’m looking now! I was scared when I wasn’t feeling well and shared this with my son. Isn’t it funny how women can be so good at giving comfort but not receiving it? It is still my job to be mothering I think. Not smothering-I remind myself. Feeling vulnerability is the most “honest” of feelings, but also the most frightening. What if I share vulnerability and I’m dismissed, laughed at or talked out of it. This wound is so deep and will get infected. Healing comes slowly if at all. It isn’t this bad is it? Yes, yes it is. For those who don’t know about wound care, it can seem counter intuitive at times. Wounds needs to be kept “open” until the infection is gone. A sterile tape is inserted to keep the wound from closing and to let the pus drain.  It is not pretty. Letting the wound close too soon risks the infection getting worse. For me, the real challenge is saying “I’m afraid” and not jumping in to discount myself. “It will be fine I’m sure, I’m just a baby” etc….closing myself up before the compassion can happen. 

Getting older means I need to exercise and build up my vulnerability and humility muscle. It’s likely I will  need more help from others, at least physically.  I hate this: “I can handle it, thank you very much.” I walk much more carefully so I don’t slip on the ice, I don’t attempt to move heavy boxes that I used to throw around, loaded with books no less. How old was he or she ? Often the first question I ask when I hear about someone’s death. When I’m not feeling “little” I’m feeling filled with rage. How could this be happening to me? How dare life treat me like this when I am the exception to the rule? The joke is on me!

I’ve written about resilience and I know this is a time when I need to rustle up some of my strengths and attitudes to stay vulnerable, but also practice good self-care. I can sit for a few minutes and meditate to slow my facing thoughts . This helps  my blood pressure and my emotional pressure too. I can ask my trusted friends and family to listen to me and let me express feelings that may not be so pretty. When someone says to me that they have had the same feelings I am validated, which is such an enemy to shame. It’s  self-compassion that will give me the space to be vulnerable. I can leave the wound open until the infection is gone.

Out there in the world I tend to try and “ Fake it until I make it.” I need to get thru the day so I reply “I’m fine” when people ask “How are you?” Maybe I can take a few more risks to be authentic without unloading or over-sharing. The next time Bob asks me “How are you?” I could answer “It’s been a struggle lately. Thank you for asking.”

When shit happens….

“I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don’t feel so bad”

My apologies to Julie Andrews for cherry-picking her lyrics, but it works for me. It’s the “ favorite things” helping her to feel better that I relate to. I have things that I love and  bring me comfort because they remind me of a positive memory or feeling. Although Inanimate  and non-living they seem human to me. My word-nerd self found that “personification” means attributing human characteristics to inanimate and non-living things. For example,  “ My car died.” and“ The dishes keep staring at me, begging me to wash them.” My Mom told me that when I couldn’t find a sock it “walked off”! Missing socks felt like a conspiracy to me. I was never good at playing hide and seek. One year for Halloween I sent my son out as the sock monster, with a hundred socks pinned all over him and a sign saying “ I have your missing sock.” I’m not sure he really got it, but I did.

The things I love aren’t antiques or valuable, but they are valuable to me and  seem human to me. My Pillsbury Doughboy is over 50 years old ( he’s as old as I am). I love him partly because of the commercial he starred in.  I remember when he was poked in his belly he had this sweet little laugh. When I see him on my windowsill, I also see my Mom kneading bread and smell the bread just out of the oven. I couldn’t wait to cut a thick slice, slather butter on it and watch it melt in. I could see,smell and taste the bread. I got a large wicker basket with a lid on it for my first dorm room, in 1970. It’s been a lot of places and seen a lot of things through the years. I still use it as a night stand and “home” is what it holds, no matter the geography. When I see it I know “I’m home. I don’t even know what’s in it now, but it doesn’t matter. I have a small figure sculpted  of nuts and bolts and he is holding a heavy metal heart. I like to think he’s offering his heart to me in case mine gets broken. He’s been with me for I don’t even know how long. He’s in a place where I see him a lot through out the day. I notice that I use the pronoun “he” when I talk about him and I guess it’s the nuts and bolt thing. I don’t know his gender at birth. My son came home from daycare 37 years ago with mama bear and Tyler-bear paper figures stapled together.  Now they are very faded but the staple still holds.  It’s the staple I love…it connects me to my son.

A penny for your thoughts? In my life it’s a dime for your thoughts. My late husband Roger had this weird thing about finding dimes. No other coins around it…just a single dime. When we were out walking he’d almost shove me out of the way to get to a dime he saw. We laughed about it and it became his thing. He made quite a pile of dimes. When he was dying I asked him to keep sending me dimes to let me know he was taking care of me. He hasn’t let me down yet. I get dimes from heaven. He leaves dimes for me everywhere. I remember one particular day I was anxious and grieving , and I parked in a big lot and opened my car door- and there on the concrete was a single dime. I thank him for each dime I find. Sometimes I joke with him and tell him inflation means he should leave me twenties. Not everyone believes that our loved ones communicate with us after death, but I believe.

I was really hoping that my date with BadBoy was going to be a lot of fun. I had dressed to impress.

hope\ˈhōp\

• : to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true

I was dressed early, so there was nothing to do but wait for him to come pick me up.

wait\ˈwāt\

• : to stay in a place until an expected event happens, until someone arrives, until it is your turn to do something, etc.
• : to remain in a state in which you expect or hope 

He was late, but he was BadBoy so I figured he was always late. I was patient and was escaping the heat of the day and sitting outside in the cooler night air. 

patient: able to remain calm and not become annoyed when waiting for a long time 

I waited and waited and began to get impatient, and irritated. He was probably drinking with his friends and decided to blow me off. My self-esteem took a nose dive.

im·pa·tient\(ˌ)im-ˈpā-shənt

• : not willing to wait for something or someone : not patient
• : showing that you do not want to wait : showing a lack of patience

I wanted to give up on the evening completely, but instead called a friend to vent and asked her to come pick me up. We’d  go to the dance sans BadBoy and have fun. I may have drank more than I should have.

give up: to cease doing or attempting something especially as an admission of defeat 

And through all that waiting here I am. I’m no longer that young woman with a shaky sense of self-worth who thinks waiting is what it’s all about.  I’m not waiting to do what I want to do. I sure as hell am not waiting at the pearly gates of heaven.  I’ll know when it’s my turn.

re·sil·ience\ri-ˈzil-yən(t)s\ noun:

• : the ability to become strong, healthy, or successful again after something bad happens

“We think that Roger has dementia.” This diagnosis  broke my life into pieces. Grief, fear and powerlessness became my daily companions. Roger, my husband, had recently fallen and been knocked unconscious.  His affect, memory and behavior had changed, and the working hypothesis was that he had a brain injury. But even with rehab and therapy he did not get better.. He was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia. Imagine Parkinsons and Azheimers together. My care giving journey began in earnest. I was tired. I cried. I raged. I felt numb. I was afraid of breaking into pieces and never being whole again.

I was like Humpty Dumpty! He fell off the wall and could not be put together again.He was not resilient, he shattered and there was no recovery. In 1871, Alice,in Lewis Carroll’s “Through  a Looking Glass” reached for an egg in a shop and saw human features on it. She declared that it was Humpty Dumpty, who as an egg was very fragile and easily cracked and broke open. Was Humpty Dumpty pushed off the wall he was sitting on, or did he jump or was it a horrible accident? Life can certainly knock us out of our secret and secure hiding places. I was pushed into caregiving by a disease that was relentless and had no remorse. I did fall apart many times but I got up one more time then I fell down. I attended a support group for caregivers and the group members kept me going when I didn’t see how I could. When I stumbled, the arms of the group members were there to help me right myself.

My sister worked in an egg packing plant checking to see if eggs were fertilized. A light was shined on the eggs and they became translucent. Inside the egg, developing embryos could be seen and then those eggs were placed in incubators. It is the yolk that provides sustenance to the growing  embryo.  There is no way to scan humans for resilience and no way to know for sure if we are growing through the pain. What sustains us? Grief takes and takes from us, but are there things that grief gives to us?

When my caregiving journey ended I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t a caregiver any longer. My shell certainly had some big cracks in it, but I held together.  With no caregiving to do I was lost, but I had this newly freed time to finally rest and grieve without guilt. Hard boiled eggs don’t crack or break as easily, but resilience is not about becoming “hard”. Learning and changing required that I remain open to pain, but not hardened by it. My caring for Roger transformed me, I was stronger, more flexible and more compassionate. My perspective on what was truly important had changed. Caregiving stripped a lot of “important” things from my life. I couldn’t “will” things to turn out the way I wanted them to. Running away and denial were tempting options of course, but I made a conscious decision to stay and care for the man I loved. 

I accepted the gifts of grief which enabled me to use my caregiving experience to facilitate support groups for caregivers of people with dementia. What a gift it was for me to be a resource for other caregivers!

I’m sitting in a coffee shop and watching  a young adult with Down Syndrome. playing with a rubber frog. He is holding it upside down and shaking it so it’s legs move making the frog look alive.He hasn’t set it down for the last hour. It soothes him and calms him, but it makes me nervous as hell! I think he’s lucky that he’s found a way to soothe himself,  but most of us have a much harder time figuring out what can relax and comfort us. I’ve tried those things we call “self-medicating”, like booze, drugs, food, and sex.  They  seemed to work for awhile, but soon  the solution became part of the problem. If  you’re numb, even destructive behaviors that bring pain can be more appealing than feeling numb. I watch him leave with his frog and I’m shocked to realize that I’ve been concentrating on the frog for quite awhile. I’m surprised at how it got my attention. 

I move and fidget when I’m anxious. The frog is pretty fidgety too!  I pace, drum my fingers and tap my foot. Sitting still is so hard for me. I always feel better after I take a walk, or run. This seems to clear my head or help me see solutions. If I work hard physically the kind of tired I feel makes it harder for me to get deep into my anxiety. It’s amazing what I can do to distract myself. I’ve even been known to clean house to ward off anxiety. I love to read and a good novel can suck me right in. My meditation practice can be pretty inconsistent, but when I do it I do feel better. This requires sitting still, so I have to slow down enough and be motivated enough to sit still and clear my mind. I am so fortunate to have a dear friend who has a black belt in listening and punching holes in my crazy thinking.

Dealing with the symptoms of anxiety is important, but still reactive.  I need to be proactive in my understanding the causes and origins of my anxiety. Why do I feel the way I feel? What am I thinking? What stories am I telling myself? In 12 step programs they talk about  “rigorous honesty”. Recognizing, facing and dealing with trauma requires a deeper commitment to get up close and personal with my pain, but my first instinct is to avoid pain. I think looking forward is positive, but I can’t move forward if the past is putting the brakes on and still in control. How do I understand and change the stories I tell myself?  First I have to hear what my stories are.  When I can do it, sitting quietly and meditating in the “sound of silence” can help me hear my own stories of victim hood,  aggrievement and self-hate. I can then challenge myself to see how these “truths” are really lies I tell myself. I think myself into a feeling and then the feeling changes my thinking, what a closed system of dysfunction! Breaking this cycle is critical to lowering my anxiety level. Writing is an important way I discover what I am thinking. If I write quickly without sensoring myself, and not paying attention to punctuation or grammar, I can write without time to edit and  correct myself. The truth is more likely to come out of this unstructured writing.

One thing I know for sure is that worry does not add anything positive to my life and takes my attention away from today . Worrying is not taking action against my anxiety, though I may feel if I worry enough I will be prepared for the bad things that will inevitability happen. I don’t want to be surprised so I worry proactively. There is no guarantee, as we all know, and so much is out of my control. What if I decided to stop worrying so much? That makes me nervous and I could even start to worry about worry. Right now I don’t know how to stop practicing worry.

So where can I find that frog for myself?

Angst:  feelings of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity about the future. Teens and angst fit together. Teenage angst, it’s real and we all felt it even if we didn’t name it.  Still I might tell my teenage self that it’s a bit of drama and over indulgence when you’ve likely got  50 years of  future to figure it out!  I think my angst is multiplied by the limited number of years I have left to begin to make sense of this thing called life and my humanity. Urgency and angst are not good for each other. Each magnifies the other.. 

I don’t court angst, but sometimes it does sneak up on me. How much time do I have left? What do I want? What if I can’t accomplish my dreams. So there it is—urgency and angst. How do I cool this anxiety and fear? There really is  some positive awareness or even wisdom that often comes with age.  I think I have some glimmers of this wisdom.  I believe life is meant to be lived joyfully. Are we having fun yet? If at 70, my answer is “ No” then I’m not doing it right. Curiosity is a virtue and a blessing to me. “I wonder if I would like that. Let’s check that out”  I might like it or hate it, or be not interested. Sure I’ll go to the Dog Hawaii print shirt contest,  with or without my dogs, who probably would think getting dressed up was  animal abuse. I’ll checkout that poetry workshop and open mic poetry reading and get inspired. Time to restart my guitar lessons. It’s a challenge and I know it will bring me joy to be able to play some of my favorite songs. I don’t want to die “with the music in me!”. Who would have thought storytelling would bring me such joy?  My writing, storytelling and poetry might bring enjoyment to others besides me, and that’s an “angst buster” for sure .

I’ve learned that I can be self-aware, but not self-absorbed. The more I think about what I want to create and share, the less time I have to obsess about my mortality. When I have an idea I imagine what the end result might be and how I would do it. At that moment I’m not ruminating on the “meaning” of life.  I’m curious and my imagination is in overdrive which is  another “angst buster”!  Enthusiasm that comes from genuine interest and commitment is energizing. It turns out that some of the things I thought I would like, I don’t, and I may even suck at some things, even those things I like. Skill is not always a requirement for fun, sometimes the fun is in my total ineptitude. Doing something badly can be so liberating. 

Where is my focus? I’m not cross-eyed anymore. What about my neighbor—next door and the other side of the world. I’ve lived long enough to truly comprehend what the poet John Dunne wrote, “Never ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”  I am “of” this world, not apart from it. I’m not a missionary in a foreign country, but I can choose to act for the greater good.  I try not to pollute the world with my own onerous and angry verbal emissions.  I can recycle, buy used, and contribute to causes I believe in. I can stand and hold a sign in protest of lies and cruelty. It matters. I matter. Knowing I matter is another “angst buster.”

I think I am much better equipped to deal with angst than a teenager. Maybe urgency and angst together is exactly the catalyst that I need. Meanwhile I’m having fun. Are you?

I have learned that writing  a poem is a whole different game than writing essays or stories. Each word in a poem has a lot of responsibility, it  needs to be just the right word to convey a feeling or paint a picture. I did a poetry reading this week and  I struggled to convey my feelings with a few powerful words. The other poets demonstrated their superior abilities and I was just a small fish in a big sea. Weak words don’t cut it, for example, in a poem you almost never see the word “nice”: It was a “nice” sunset, the morning was “nice”. Why?  Because there is not one ounce of feeling or imagination in “nice”. Poetry tells me to get to the point. Find the just right word that says it best.

As I have gotten older, I am more motivated and determined  to do the things I want to do and cut the onerous bonds of doing the things I think I should do. I want to get to the point of curious contentment.  A whole lot of “almost”, “not quite” and “kinda” miss the point for me. I can eat a whole lot of salad, but it may not be as satisfying as one small piece of good dark chocolate. There’s that “It’s quality, not quantity.” truism.  I don’t always buy the lowest price item, now I’m willing to spend more if another item is what I really want.  Living is simpler the more I am learning to listen to myself.  “Good enough  is a great concept, but I want at least some of my days to be more than good enough, I want some excellent days. After all Goldilocks  didn’t  settle until she found the bed that was “just right”.

When I say stop the “bullshit” I mean stop piling on words to make something that is nonsensical make sense. I love words and the verb obfuscate” says it well: to confuse, bewilder, or stupefy. To make obscure or unclear, offering extraneous information. We think we are evolving, but maybe we are just getting better at obfuscating! I’m worried that the end result of all the social media we live with is to “confuse, bewilder, or stupefy.” Artificial intelligence increases this risk exponentially. AI is consistent and not subject to distraction, moods and other human maladies. We could be in big trouble with all the extraneous information we are subjected to. We even have an expression for this “I fell into the rabbit hole.”  Imagine if Bugs Bunny asked ,“What’s up doc?”, and got some malignant Trump word salad in response. His rabbit hole would not save him.

I don’t have much clarity, and I doubt I can wrap this post up in a way that satisfies me and my readers. Here again a poem could be a good vehicle if I could find the perfect, powerful words to express myself. My internal thesaurus is a little rusty and I am confused, bewildered and stupefied.  That’s perfect!

When I was a child, at every family holiday celebration there was a grown-up table and a kid’s table. It was a big deal when I graduated to the grown-up’s table. I’m now 70 years old and I’m ready to go back to the kid’s table. My son who is 37 is a grown – up, but at 70 I am not really sure if I am a grown-up. I could just be old. Grown-ups seem like they are in control of their lives, it’s an illusion, but they look good! 

Adulting is an informal term often used to describe behavior that is seen as responsible and grown-up. This involves meeting the mundane demands of independent and professional living, such as paying bills and running errands, not to mention raising children. I don’t know  if I am adulting now, but I’m pretty sure I was a grown up most of the time when I was raising my son.

My son has a good job, owns his home, is responsible and seems sure of his beliefs and faith. He seems to have more answers than he has questions. I have one answer for every ten questions.My beliefs and faith are not melded together in a consistent and meaningful way. I don’t have a mission statement. Aren’t I supposed to have a mission statement? After I asked him for some advice, my son commented that it’s parents who give advice to their children, not the other way around. I said I’ll listen to advice wherever it comes from, especially from someone who knows me well. He shared an observation of me that although painful to hear I knew was true. I wanted to spew out “ You have a lot to learn yet and I’m old and wise you know.”  Good thing I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to sound like a teenager who is always right. Grownups know “ I could be wrong” is the mature thing to say. I’m in trouble  because I have a mountain of resistance to admitting I may be wrong. My son makes sure I am aware of this fact.

I don’t want to grow up if adulting means I become conforming, in-tolerant and a rule follower.   I don’t want to stop playing, having fun or being silly. Psychologists have put forth theories of life stages, all seem to agree  that elders have often gained wisdom that can be passed down to younger generations. The missing piece in all of these theories about aging and saging is that age does not always bring an audience willing to listen. Besides, no one really learns from other’s experiences, it is only their own experiences. If you are busy adulting and raising a family,  who has time to listen anyway?  Jr. has to get to his soccer game and marriages need to be saved.

Meanwhile I’m busy living and loving, trying new things, feeling new feelings and doing what I love. I don’t need a label to put me in my place in the human life cycle. 

You are in a dark smoky bar and you see a dude in a fantastic white suit. He says to his friend “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart as Rick.  I think this is the ultimate coincidence in a movie. The topic “What a coincidence!”,was the topic this week for my storytelling event.  With revisions I’d like to share it with you in this blog post. 

35 years ago …I was very upset that day, my marriage was in trouble. My husband had told me he  was willing to stay and work on our marriage he had feelings for another woman. I doubted him. Since I wanted to smoke, rant and cry my girlfriend and I decided to go to Rolland Moore Park so I could smoke outside. I looked up and I was shocked and devastated  to see my husband drive by with the other woman. A million fucks! Wrong place at the wrong time.

30 years ago: I went to my hair stylist who knew I had recently got divorced and we were talking about  my current  state of datelessness. The stylist next to us overheard us and said “Hey my neighbor is single and a really nice guy. He got divorced a few years ago. He’s cute too! Can I give him your number? ”We got married 2 years later. Right place, right time. 

Coincidences…I’d rather talk about sex or confess my sins then write and talk about this topic! It befuddles me and makes me very confused. Even in my dorm circle of earnest college girls passing Boones Farm around, there was no resolution or solace in talking about coincidences and fate. Maybe we needed better wine, or more of it, to get the courage to face the real issues: self-determination,and acceptance. My aging self still  struggles with these issues.

I’m a rule follower, so in spite of my resistance, I started to write about coincidence, but screeched to a stop just before I ran into the brick wall of randomness and chaos.  Wait a minute, do  I even believe in coincidences? My itty bitty brain wants definitions cause I’m likely to misunderstand what a word really means.  I trust Daniel Webster: 2 : coincidence…the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to be connected. So events are accidental but we create the connection? What a coincidence! We name  it and create the meaning. I make a judgement call about how events or facts are related. 

We humans are funny creatures, we tend to think things happen for a reason. Randomness and chaos are uncomfortable paradigms. We control our lives right? We are social creatures and search for connections. For example you tell me you are from Iowa , and I say “what a coincidence I am too.” We want to create a “we”.; we share a similar background, we have something in common. We are then socially connected, more alike than different, not total strangers anymore. If we find out our new acquaintance is on the same political  side as us that’s a good coincidence, but if we are on opposite sides politically the fact that we are in the same place at the same time may not be a pleasant coincidence, it could be an unpleasant accident. Like the “match” who thought I should wear my ballot for Biden around my neck! A coffee date with a “Match” is really all about finding out how alike we are, how do we connect. We are hoping for “coincidences” or facts  that make us more likable to each other.

I’m not a true believer in fate: Fate is a power that is believed to control what will happen in the future  What power? Is this power on my side? I’m very uncomfortable with “chaos” which is defined as “a state of things in which chance is supreme”: If chance is supreme then coincidences and fate should just slink off into the corner. Let’s kick superstition to the corner too. We don’t earn good or bad karma, we don’t really deserve anything. Bad things do happen to good people. My  husband got early onset Lewy Body Dementia and died at 64. It wasn’t” fair”, but  then I’m not owed fairness.There are things that have happened in my life and I demanded an answer to“why”, but so far I have no answers and life just laughs at me.

Sounds a bit like word salad to me. Can we prove any of this stuff? Do things have meaning? Does anybody really have a plan?  Do I  believe in magical thinking? I know I have a heap of good questions but no answers really. Does any of this really matter? I think sometimes I need to know answers  to protect myself….from fear and insecurity.

I’m not waiting for the stars to align for me. I put myself out there and expect no guarantees and my fingers are not crossed. I do know 2 things for sure: good things happen and shit happens!! I can live with this. I have to.