The stick's pointing west! Let's go west!
"A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived.
Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his time to be given the man's attention.
The wise man listened attentively to the boy's explanation of why he had come, but told him that he didn't have time just then to explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.
'Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,' said the wise man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. 'As you wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil to spill.'
The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spook. After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man was.
'Well,' asked the wise man, 'did you see the Persian tapestries that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?'
The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.
'Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,' said the wise man. 'You cannot trust a man if you don't know his house.'
Relieved, the boy picked up the spook and returned to his exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.
'But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?' asked the wise man.
Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.
'There is only one piece of advice I can give you,' said the wisest of wise men. 'The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.'
Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
I have a question for you all: do you believe in omens? Even a little bit?
I never really did. I'm a big proponent of the idea that everything happens for a reason and there is no such thing as coincidence, but I am also the daughter of an economist and eventually the ruthlessly rational side of me will kick in. I have scoffed at edgy friends when they've read into something as more than a car accident or a butterfly or a twig pattern (usually out of the desire to get on with whatever it is that we're doing), and, while I do touch wood when making outright challenges to the universe, for the most part I am a practical gal.
And so maybe it is Coelho's repetitive "watch for omens! omens will steer you to your Personal Legend! omens omens omens!" that's twigging my imagination but... okay, so, check it out.
The word "Mexican" now makes me prick up my ears where once - in May! - it would've meant nothing more than... Nigerian or... erm... Dutch, for example. So, obviously, it would seem logical that I'm hearing more about Mexico and Mexicans than usual. Right? Right.
Wednesday night I turn on the telly for a little bit of brain melting. On CityTV, they are showing Fools Rush In, the horrible Matthew Perry/Salma Hayek movie wherein a pent up New Yorker marries a sexy Mexican he has just met (and the intercultural hilarity ensues). On Global, there is an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy in which the prancing (come on, they PRANCE!) fivesome are attempting to blend urban American and traditional Central American aesthetics for a couple getting married that evening. And on OmniOne, there is a documentary about the [fictious, propagandist] Land of Milk And Honey immigrants find when they come to Canada, and the narrator is currently interviewing a Mexican DOCTOR talking about all the opportunities that Mexico could not have afforded him.
It's a bit creepy, right? Just a little bit a creepy? A little bit eyebrow-raising?
Not to mention the overwhelming number of times a day that My Mexican's name, Mexico in general, the need for foreign doctors in Canada, Mexico City, holiday romances, and so on, comes up in random conversation with random people. It's starting to creep me out a little.
And I'm sensitive right now, I know that, and there's a distinct possibility that I'm now looking for it and am thus prone to filtering through a random comment like "my husband and I met in Ottawa" as "I met My Mexican on holiday! oh my GOD!"
But it's still kinda cool.
Thankfully, my ruthlessly practical side, combined with My Mexican's stupid bloody horrible Mandatory Social Service that is keeping him trapped in a small town until January 31st at the absolute earliest, will prevent me from doing anything rash and Matthew Perry-esque. No dashing off to Mexico City with declarations of illogical love for this girl.
But it's fun to just watch.
I still don't believe in omens. Or coincidence.
Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his time to be given the man's attention.
The wise man listened attentively to the boy's explanation of why he had come, but told him that he didn't have time just then to explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.
'Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,' said the wise man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. 'As you wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil to spill.'
The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spook. After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man was.
'Well,' asked the wise man, 'did you see the Persian tapestries that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?'
The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.
'Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,' said the wise man. 'You cannot trust a man if you don't know his house.'
Relieved, the boy picked up the spook and returned to his exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.
'But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?' asked the wise man.
Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.
'There is only one piece of advice I can give you,' said the wisest of wise men. 'The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.'
Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
I have a question for you all: do you believe in omens? Even a little bit?
I never really did. I'm a big proponent of the idea that everything happens for a reason and there is no such thing as coincidence, but I am also the daughter of an economist and eventually the ruthlessly rational side of me will kick in. I have scoffed at edgy friends when they've read into something as more than a car accident or a butterfly or a twig pattern (usually out of the desire to get on with whatever it is that we're doing), and, while I do touch wood when making outright challenges to the universe, for the most part I am a practical gal.
And so maybe it is Coelho's repetitive "watch for omens! omens will steer you to your Personal Legend! omens omens omens!" that's twigging my imagination but... okay, so, check it out.
The word "Mexican" now makes me prick up my ears where once - in May! - it would've meant nothing more than... Nigerian or... erm... Dutch, for example. So, obviously, it would seem logical that I'm hearing more about Mexico and Mexicans than usual. Right? Right.
Wednesday night I turn on the telly for a little bit of brain melting. On CityTV, they are showing Fools Rush In, the horrible Matthew Perry/Salma Hayek movie wherein a pent up New Yorker marries a sexy Mexican he has just met (and the intercultural hilarity ensues). On Global, there is an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy in which the prancing (come on, they PRANCE!) fivesome are attempting to blend urban American and traditional Central American aesthetics for a couple getting married that evening. And on OmniOne, there is a documentary about the [fictious, propagandist] Land of Milk And Honey immigrants find when they come to Canada, and the narrator is currently interviewing a Mexican DOCTOR talking about all the opportunities that Mexico could not have afforded him.
It's a bit creepy, right? Just a little bit a creepy? A little bit eyebrow-raising?
Not to mention the overwhelming number of times a day that My Mexican's name, Mexico in general, the need for foreign doctors in Canada, Mexico City, holiday romances, and so on, comes up in random conversation with random people. It's starting to creep me out a little.
And I'm sensitive right now, I know that, and there's a distinct possibility that I'm now looking for it and am thus prone to filtering through a random comment like "my husband and I met in Ottawa" as "I met My Mexican on holiday! oh my GOD!"
But it's still kinda cool.
Thankfully, my ruthlessly practical side, combined with My Mexican's stupid bloody horrible Mandatory Social Service that is keeping him trapped in a small town until January 31st at the absolute earliest, will prevent me from doing anything rash and Matthew Perry-esque. No dashing off to Mexico City with declarations of illogical love for this girl.
But it's fun to just watch.
I still don't believe in omens. Or coincidence.
Comments
Mundane xamples include songs coming on the radio just after you have been humming them, friends ringing you just as you were picking up the phone to dial them, that kind of thing.
The argument is that you spectacularly fail to remember the millions of incidents where you have been humming a song and something else comes onto the radio. Or all the green lights you have merrily sailed through.
Or, all the times you have been thinking about your Mexican and nothing remotely hapens that is Mexican related and therefore your brain doesnt add them together.
So, what am I trying to say? hmm. I suppose on this basis you're right, there is no omen but there is concidence, but it is all a matter of statistical probability.
how f*cking dull and unromantic is that? "Signs" would have been a bleeding rubbish film on that basis.
I read it on that basis and with an open mind and thought it was fatalistic bollocks and I wasn't having it.
Sorry
ST
But like my post about ghosts some time back (in the broken ass era), sometimes isn't it fun to allow yourself to contemplate the possibility of more?