My note from the universe didn’t come this morning.
My note may be lost. It might have slipped under the doormat with the other bills that the mailman drops through our door. Maybe it was pushed or kicked or blown under the sofa, under my pillow, under the bed. Maybe the cat got to it, crumpled and left in the corner with his favorite green mouse; the one that jingles as he carries it in his teeth, jingle jingle stomp stomp stomp jingle jingle jingle through the house.
My note wasn’t in any of those places.
My note didn’t appear.
I went to the site searching for my daily inspiration, and there was no note, no message. No reason, no explanation. Has the universe gone? Am I alone?
Am I alone? A question I used to ask myself a lot, especially when I was dating Brian. He would disappear on the weekends, “Babe, just calling to say goodnight, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry, I’m turning my phone off.” By Sunday I’d have to speak out loud, ask myself, “Can I hear me?” Checking to see if the chords still plucked. My girlfriends vanished too. Not fans of the Brian-Carolyn connection. I went to movies alone, went to dinners alone, had a drink at the local bar alone. I walked many beach fairs alone. I would buy a hat. “Am I alone?” I said to the girl in the mirror as I adjusted a new black and white hat with with a wide brim.
I own a lot of hats.
Has the universe left me on the Winter Solstice? Is the internet down, connection fried? I know, maybe it’s because I won’t be shredding, burning, dancing under a full moon, Stonehenge chanting, crop circle tracing, meditation candlelight walking, praying through labyrinths. I won’t be saging, Ayahuasca trip sitting or tea journeying. They say the universe likes ceremony. They say the universe wants me to have more pomp, circumstance, leather fringe, drum circle, ecstatic dance, hot coal fire walking in my life. They say, the universe likes when you ritual with others not alone. They say I don’t live up to the standards. Maybe that’s why, because the only thing I’ve planned is writing, reading, American Hustle love making and a bit of red wine.
I don’t go to parades. I eat gluten, dairy and meat. I leave before the fireworks. I don’t eat eggs or tofu and I will eat bacon. I don’t like women’s groups or meditation groups, or girls night out, I prefer the men join. Sometimes I’ll skip the party all together. I believe in attraction, not The Secret. I’m not a fan of yes yes crocodile tearing gurus that oversell and over-tell. I like the real deal. Someone once told me I was the spiritual anti-christ. I get it, I said to her, I am contrary to popular belief.
I’m surprised when I find myself in the middle of the picture, the women grouping, forming, molding themselves around me, even though I choose a seat in the back closest to the aisle. I’m happy on the fringe. Don’t push, stop pulling, it’s time for me to go, I’m ready, I whisper to them to myself and slip out the emergency exit.
Boyfriends and girlfriends have come and gone. I’ve moved through women’s gestalt wine goddess Tuesday’s relations. I’ve felt the rope burn from untying knots. It leaves a mark, a tale to tell around the fire; full moon hanging low evening at the beach. Feet dig in cold winter sand, toes wriggle for warmth. Fire pits glow along the coast as cars whiz by above.
I am my own ritual.
Two hearts link themselves in a dark bar on a smoke filled night. The smell of schnapps and beer, voices of drinkers and smokers scratch above the click of pool cues scratch and the scrape scrape scrape of blue chalk on felt tip. Hazel eyes, black lash, a smile, some words.
History unfolds in a moment and the Universe might not work weekends.