Does the Universe speak to us, or are we just always looking for meaning?
Yesterday: I heard from my dear friend Missy's daughter. Missy died earlier this year. Her daughter, "K" often visits the spot where the family scattered Missy's ashes - a specific point on the beach at Jacob Riis Park in Queens. At K's last visit, a pink heart balloon washed up from the shore, deflated and battered but at the exact spot. Also, someone had constructed a beach sculpture of rocks, shells and twigs in the same place. Missy was an artist, and K was speculating that she's changed her style. But she saw it as a message.
Then last night, when I turned off my bedside lamp, I spied a lone firefly outside my bedroom window. He danced and danced just outside the window for the longest time. Drowsy and happy, I felt my late Dad had come by for a visit - to let me know he was watching me and that he loved me. It was so beautiful - the yellow/greenish light against the dark sky.
Finally, this morning, my husband texted a short video of a brown rabbit hopping across the path. He and I are heading to Long Island this weekend. When we were dating - oh so long ago - he had a share in a summer house in Long Island. We used to go for walks at dusk and count the bunnies. I smiled when I thought of this. Then I looked up from my laptop and there was a fat brown rabbit on my patio. We've lived in this house 30 years, and I've never seen a bunny here.
Signs, signs, signs. Except last night, when my husband stirred in his sleep, I jostled him to point out the firefly. "It's amazing!" I told him. "He just stays at the window." Mike gazed at the sight, and then said, "I think he may be stuck in the pull of the window fan." Sigh. We turned off the fan and the firefly remained. A sign! But then Mike pulled out the fan, and it turned out that the firefly was stuck behind it. Somehow, it had gotten in the house, and now he darted desperately around the bedroom, looking like an errant Tinkerbell.
Last I saw the firefly, it had landed somewhere next to my nightstand. I worried it would die there, and I've already lost my Dad once. Well twice, if you count the dementia that proceeded his actual death. I'm dreading finding the firefly's dead shell this morning. If I do, I won't interpret it as a sign of anything.