Serendipity

The Writer's Almanac for today informs us that the term "serendipity" was first coined in 1754.  I sit at my computer in my new house, the Virginia Wolfe House, and think of happy coincidence, unsought blessings, unexpected discoveries and abundance.

I have a deck of cards entitled "Goddess Guidance Oracle Cards" - I love these cards and pick out a card each day to contemplate.  Today's card is Rhiannon, a lunar Welsh sorceress who reminds me that I am magical and am able to manifest my intentions into reality.

It is the conjunction of serendipity and conscious intention that interests me.  What happy accidents might we unconsciously create, what spiritual wish list do we hold within our heart of hearts?  A friend recently gave me a book on 7000 ways to listen:  listen to my heart, listen to the breath of god on the wind, listen to the vast silence into which we will all someday wander.  In that silence we create a sacred space, a space of gratitude and wonder.

My life has been full of serendipity spiced with intention - the Virginia Wolfe house was found at the right time, when I needed storage space and a place to write, a retreat house.  I was adopted into a wonderful family at the age of 3 months - was I imagining this home in my infant despair?   A handsome prince came into my life unexpectedly after I spent a year writing poetry and contemplating a move to the Midwest.

Don't be afraid to wish, to dream - if it doesn't work out, you can make another wish, dream another dream.  You might find an unexpected path to wander, an unexpected silence to inform you.


"What a wonderful life I've had! I only wish I'd realized it sooner." - Colette

Ordinary Blessings

We’ve gotten through the holidays, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems to me we used to look forward to them, rather than hope we survive them.  There’s something seriously wrong about ads with kids trying to get their folks to buy a new car, for heaven’s sake, as a Christmas gift. 

It’s all behind us, and I’m sure Martha Stewart would not have given me a passing grade on either my Thanksgiving or Christmas table settings, but we had family together and it doesn’t get better than that.

I look out over the bleak landscape – if you can love a place in late January or early February, you’re in the right place.  The horizon blends into the fields and the snowbanks are sullied by topsoil blowing into the drifts.  Used to be, we had hedgerows and fence lines and railroad beds keeping the topsoil where it belonged.  Don’t get me started.

And in the midst of overcast skies and dirty snowbanks I think of Mr. Stearns’ gladiolus field.  We lived on West Main; two houses east of us was just the most beautiful sight you could imagine.  Mr. Stearns had an entire lot – maybe a third of an acre – in gladiolus plants.  They were glorious, elegant stems full of brilliant color, every color in your big Crayola box and maybe some that weren’t.  From our yard, you could just see the tops of those long-stemmed wonders, like a mosaic.  If you see maybe five or six together in the grocery or at a greenhouse, you’ve got to be impressed:  Mr. Stearns’ glads took up most of his lot, an awesome sight.  Sometimes we went out into Potter’s cornfield and got a look at them from there. 

Mr. and Mrs. Stearns were gentle, humble souls, and yet gave us a wonder to regard, a memory bright and heart-warming, to cherish over the years and lighten the long days of winter: the blessings of an ordinary life.