I am not making this up, although if I read it in a script I would roll my eyes. It happened last weekend.
The day had arrived…very shortly, I would be reading a poem of mine.
Out loud. To a group of people. Using a microphone. For the first time.
I had been ill, and not taking good care of myself, but I am glad to say I was not trying to talk myself out of going. This reading was going to happen.
Less than an hour before I was due to leave, my spouse–who had been feeling a bit of what he thought was digestive upset–transitioned into severe pain and vomiting.
Now, my marriage is not perfect, but never let it be said I feel no love for him: I did not run off to the poetry reading and leave him writhing in pain. Off to the ER we went.
They took care of him, and found a stone on the scan, and he is getting better.
I am left with a question: Should I search for meaning in this putative accident of timing, or can I let it be?
I am inclined toward the latter. If the universe wants to tell me that sharing my poetry is a bad idea, it’s going to have to do better than this.
Just leave my family out of it, OK?