Misleading Signals

Three times on Harry’s drive to the park, another driver flashed a turn signal but didn’t turn.

Once he almost turned left in front of someone who was going straight because they were signaling the opposite way.

As he walks a familiar and well-worn path, he thinks about all the times people sent him signals, up to and including agreeing on a certain course of action, and then backed out, went another way, disappeared, or betrayed him.

It used to infuriate him, but he learned to act on his own principles, not on other people’s signals.

In this way he avoided a lot of tragedy.

Like today. He didn’t get t boned. He didn’t go to the hospital. He didn’t have to file an insurance claim. His car is unblemished and still in good working order.

All because he waited an extra moment to be sure the way was clear.

It wasn't gut instinct, intuition, magic, or any sixth sense.

He just drives defensively on principle.

On the other hand, he fully recognizes a metaphysical aspect to his physical existence.

Many times, an inexplicable synchronicity guides him through affairs in which he would otherwise be completely lost.

He learned to trust this guidance insofar as he ought.

But he noticed, as with the turn signals, and flaky people, that the signs sometimes encouraged him to do things he knew, according to his own principles, were wrong.

He also noticed that many other people are all too eager to jump at the first chance to indulge themselves if “God”, or “the Universe”, or some other divinatory source or sigil should give them the slightest encouragement.

Oh, well.

Another one bites the dust.

Harry’s life isn’t much to look at, but he doesn’t care for the scrutiny, so in his book, it’s a win/win.

He's just happy to make it to his chosen destination, in one piece, with a clear conscience.

The path through the field turns into the forest, and Harry finds himself surrounded by freshly blooming flowers and trees.

He meanders off the beaten path, among the newly growing brush.

He's not beyond exploring, not beyond getting lost, on his own terms.

Deeper he goes, choosing to turn whenever he happens to see a bird resting on a tree branch.

Sometimes left, sometimes right, as his heart urges him.

He comes to a clearing and finds a small pond with a fallen tree on its edge.

The hum of the highways, the prattle of passers-by, the whir of cyclists, the huffing and puffing of joggers, all of these nuisances are absent here, in a secret place he always finds in this synchronistic way.

It's not always the same place, but it's always his place once he finds it. His and his alone. A respite earned by a clear conscience and a pure heart.

He sits down with his back to the fallen tree, listening to birdsong, the spring breeze rustling leaves, watching the sunlight dart through the swaying branches, making shadow plays on the faintly rippling water.

As he drifts off for an afternoon nap, he feels the purring bloom of love in the very center of his being, and dreams the afternoon away.

He never felt anything better.

He wakes up and heads back a different way than he came, emerging from the woods to greet a rosey red dusk.

It comforts some folks to think this is all a grand, meaningless illusion, and they're not wrong; but we must always bear in mind that understanding the prevarications and prestidigitations that produce the spectacle render it no less real.