I have this thing about the universe. I try to listen to what the universe is telling me to do – to hear its sometimes hidden message. Lots of people would say my “universe” is their “God.” Others might say it’s their inner self talking, or their soul.
I don’t think it matters where the important messages come from. What matters is listening.
Right now, I don’t know what the universe is telling me. I have all these great ideas for essays to write and pitch to publications. One of these ideas may be “the one” to catch the eye of an agent, who will contact me about my memoir, and usher me to a book deal.
Of course, my memoir is not yet finished. Is the universe telling me to forget essays, just get the damn book done already? Or is it saying,
I can only open a door of opportunity for you, I can’t make you walk through it.
Then there’s my upcoming birthday party, in three days. Yup- it’s the big 6-0 for me. I rented a room and invited friends and family, and have special fun things planned to pay forward all the blessings I’ve had in my 59 and 258/365 years. Does the universe want me to focus on getting ready, so I can enjoy this time without turning into a weepy ball of stress?
And my health. (Cue rolling eyes emoji.) It’s hard to do much of anything lately, even writing, with the time-suck of my chronic health conditions. Should I just drop everything and focus on healing? What if healing is not possible? I wish the universe would give up that card it’s holding close to its vast chest.
Then there’s the shooting in Pittsburgh, my hometown. Another mass tragedy. Another tsunami of grief and outrage for our country. As a writer, is there anything I can possibly say that hasn’t already been said by those more intimately affected? I will console, I will support, I will advocate. I will vote. But is there something else I’m missing?
I’m listening, universe. I’m ready when you are.
Maybe this—these words, unpolished, without resolution—are its answer.