So often, we think of destiny on a large scale, as if it is only the major moments of life: who we’re meant to fall in love with, the career we’re meant to have, the major impact we’ll make in the arts, or teaching students, or making scientific discoveries.
Destiny is this grand concept that looms large and we wait and wait and wait for it, wondering if each moment taken or missed sends us on the path that will take us closer to or farther from our destiny, our fate.
I’ve never really bought into this idea of destiny, or being born to a particular purpose. I believe we make our own purpose and our own meaning. If anything, we have multiple destinies.
Or, if there is such a thing as fate or destiny, it’s probably much smaller than finding the love of my life or the career I was meant to have. (How does that saying go? I don’t dream of labor. I wasn’t meant to work.)
Maybe we have a million little destinies, some so small they go by without our even realizing we’ve fulfilled them. A million little destinies, interconnected and entwined with others.
I’ve had many of these small moments that felt destined, that gave meaning to days that might otherwise have felt meaningless:
– helping a person at the bookstore find a book on grief, and listening while they shared their loss with me.
– connecting with someone when they buy a book I love and we find out we love a lot of the same books. I’ll never see them again, because they’re just passing through, but we connected just the same.
– holding a door for someone
– letting someone merge in traffic
– petting a cat as I walked by their house
– seeing a porcupine climb a tree while I walk by a river
These are just some examples of moments that felt special to me, that felt as if they were meant to happen and that wouldn’t have, had timing been just a little different.
When I was a kid, I used to have dreams that came true. Small things, moments that could be easily dismissed as déjà vu, such as coming to the top of a hill and the light hitting in a particular way, or seeing myself pick up a set of keys in the dream and a few days later, picking them up in the exact same way.
As a child, I had a recurring dream that I was walking through tall grass, letting my fingertips brush the tops as I walked with my hands trailing at either side as I moved through the meadow.
A little over a year ago, I signed up for a workshop at the Crestone Poetry Fest. I had time only for one, because I was covering shifts at the bookstore. I almost didn’t go, because I was so tired that morning. Yet, I drove myself to Crestone for a “Generative Creekside Meander” workshop. I followed two artists as they gave the group a tour of their outdoor art installation, made from the natural materials found along the path. They invited us to pause and take in the forest, the stream, the art, the trees.
At one point as we walked, I found myself in tall grass that reached well past my hips. I closed my eyes and let my fingers drag across the tops of the grass, the sun warm on my face, chilled by the cool fall air.
My dream came true. I haven’t had that dream again.
It felt, at the moment, and still, as if I met a small destiny on that path.
Ink and Vein 