Serendipity

You've got to ask yourself one question, do I feel lucky? Whether I am addressed by a .44 Magnum or Aristotle, this is a tricky question. Oncoming traffic has stayed in its lane, and my nasty Zyn habit has not cultivated any life-altering mouth sores yet. Bad luck you caught a cold, good luck you were not in office during your boss’s terrible meltdown. And you only caught a cold because you lost your jacket. But a homeless man survived last night because he found it. So what? The butterfly that wreaked havoc in Texas leaves me in shambles as I choose my outfit for the evening. If luck is so subjective, why entertain such a silly postulate? I will elaborate and hope no disaster comes from my meander. Luck is a singularity, the flip of a card. Pocket aces are considered lucky, but your pre-flop odds of winning are only 64% at a table of four. Even then, you choose to sit at the table, and you decide not to fold. Winning this hand is not simply good luck, it is serendipity.  

The difference between good luck and serendipity is agency. Here I hesitate. My brother is citing the Oxford dictionary from memory, tearing at the seams of my point. I stand upon this hill, nevertheless. I will not submit to Oxford. I spit in his eye. Upon this high ground I proceed. What choices do you make? You listen to a podcast of brain rot and consume fast food several times a week. All is well because you go to the gym, few of your friends or coworkers make it this far. This is your week. Friday night you booze with your friends; it has been a long five days. You deserve it. Saturday, you sleep in and attend to your health. Sunday is for chores. Laundry does not wash itself. The fridge must be stocked. You have a busy week ahead. Monday the race begins. Again. Again. Again. Again. You have goals, but you will find more time later. Anyways, money is tight right now.  

There is always tomorrow for dreams to come true. Maybe a lucky break.

Hold, the mistake is here. Time waits for jack shit, and the choices you make now will dictate your tomorrow. So, you want to be a writer? Write now. I don’t have time. Yes, you do. Friday night. How many hours?  5 pm – 10 pm (you lie, but I can look past that). Five hours. On Saturday you do not wake up at 6, you need sleep, so you wake up at 10. Four hours. You are oh so slow the next day. A conservative twelve hours, that is 624 hours in the next year. 26 days. You could have written a book or learned to play Für Elise. We watch TV and listen to podcast brain rot, but have no time to read. Starting your business is another question. But you have time to spiral on reels. I could go on, but no need to beat the horse pulp.  What a bloody mess I have on my hands.

Paint in the blank, and over the bland. Now step back and look upon your canvas. Does the project reflect your heart, a cumulation of your wildest dreams? Or are you simply adding dull features to the dull painting? Does its complexion radiate compassion and love or do the eyes of contempt and trauma stare back? The beautiful Dorian refused to look and paid the price. As your brush fills in the details, you will find a new depth to the image. The capacity of your canvas is endless.

Did I meander? I’m on the hill, I don’t give a damn. Serendipity comes from an accumulation of details. Every stroke on your canvas is a minute of your life. The more meaningfully the paint is applied, the more beautiful the picture is. After a decade of delicate strokes, a master piece will emerge. A life of scrabbling results in no more than self-pity and regret. I have come far from my point. So it goes. A beautiful painting is serendipity. We look at the smile on Mona Lisa, or the reflection on the pearl of The Girl with the Pearl Earring. We see mastery in these strokes of genius, but this comes from a lifetime of intentional strokes. What did you paint today?