It's been a quiet week on Lake Laidoffegon, my current hometown, out on the edge of the borough. Autumn is flaunting its full regalia among the park's red oaks and tulip trees, providing a variegated canopy for the dormant herbs and wildflowers. We've long said goodbye to the the downy yellow violets, the bloodroot, and the Dutchman’s breeches, and the last black-capped chickadees, the great blue herons, and the belted kingfishers are all busying themselves for the last push to a warmer elsewhere.*
* Actually, I have no knowledge of any of those species. I am a city person, and about the only animals I could pick out of a lineup have sprays designed to kill them. I cribbed most of those names from the NYC Parks Department website. Blogging With Integrity!
Mostly, I've been keeping busy with the day-to-day, beating the bushes for writing assignments. I stumbled upon a trove of my old banners and installed one of my favorites above. I also found some time to tinker with the blog's layout by demarcating the Content on the left and the Filler on the right. A ripe political metaphor just in time for Election Day.
This morning I was attending to the aforementioned day-to-day when I caught myself day-to-daydreaming about autumn and the natural cycle of being. Why are we here? Is there a plan? Or is this just a finite stream of random events until some crucial organ wears out?
I had just come back from the store with the exact weight of groceries I can carry for four blocks, as most Manhattanites do. I had just gotten the front door of my building open and begun the ritual of Hold The Door Open With Your Ass and Fling The Parcels Inward when I felt a tug at my waist. Was this a sign? An invisible hand urging patience until the great plan is revealed?
No. The door handle had become entangled in the waistband of my boxer shorts, and the resulting halt of momentum brought my groceries hurling back at me, until one bag slammed against the door and shattered a bottle of olive oil.
I freed myself, gathered my wits and shards, unsnarled the bunch from my crucial organ, and headed for the elevator more reassured than ever. Life is a series of random events that sometimes link up so preposterously as to suggest otherwise.