Months ago, a Vedic astrologist told me that July 13, 2015 would be important for me. “Big,” she said, as she starred the date. “Big.”
Why was I at a Vedic astrologist, might be your next question. And the answer, really, is — why not? Life is confusing, and sometimes hard, and full of amazing moments that we hesitate to believe in because expectation begets disappointment, we’ve learned, and we think that if we can just “figure it out,” we’ll be … happy, content, better. We’re untapped potential, if only we knew how to secure it. We’re Mozart with a paint brush. If only someone had thought to give us an orchestra. Who are we; what does it all mean? Is this it? Am I doing it right? These questions have given us George Bailey running through town, realizing that life is worth living. It’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s 42, and Curly’s “one thing.” Kafka said the meaning of life is that it stops. Frost said that the meaning of life is that it goes on.
Walking into a little Tibetan shop with one of my closest friends, we weren’t expecting to stumble upon the meaning of life, but we were open to the idea of experiencing a new facet of it, and we didn’t hate the idea of a great happy hour just across the street. During an astrology reading, it’s all about you, which is gratifying on a very basic level. For every believer in anything, there is a doubter, but we both left the shop feeling that fun tingle of new possibilities. My reading had said that I was entering a period of change and growth, and that 13 years ago, I’d been in the same phase, but had walked away from it. Since I’d definitely made some poor decisions 13 years ago, lucky guess or stars aligned, the idea that now was the right time to begin planting some of those latent seeds rang true. The reading also said that birds and the color blue were both important to me, and since I didn’t have an “I love blue birds” pendant on, but I do have a living room decorated with silhouetted blue birds, I took note. And July 13 would be “big.” Very big.
Leaving the reading, the only thing I knew for sure about July 13 was that I had a dental appointment, because I’d recently scheduled it, six months out. But, there were still 23 hours left in the day. Anything could happen. Meanwhile, I took on a bigger assignment at work, took charge of my health and started this blog as a creative outlet to balance the bigger but decidedly non-creative atmosphere at work. Spring came, wet and cool, and summer did the same. First and third grade ended for my children, I surprised myself by nursing an orchid back to life, and my youngest learned how to ride a bike, tutored patiently by my eldest.
And the day arrived. July 13. I won’t say I nearly forgot about it. Because I didn’t. Even if the astrologist had simply done the math to know that 13 years ago, I likely graduated from college, and I clearly wasn’t wearing nice enough jewelry to have a wildly successful career under my belt. Even if two-thirds of the population gravitate toward the color blue, there’s still something intriguing about a starred date on the calendar.
I woke up on July 12 with a summer cold, which seemed inopportune and unlikely to resolve itself in a day. And I still had a dentist appointment and not only was July 13 a Monday, but my first day back in the office in nearly two weeks. It seemed like a lot of competing factors. And what, I realized, late at night, if “big” didn’t mean good? I’d been assuming, based on the positive nature of the rest of the reading, that big equaled good. Suddenly, not only did I have sniffles and a sore throat, but also a somewhat paralyzing fear.
And what did happen on July 13? I hit snooze a couple times, for the first time in a while, because my summer cold was definitely lingering. Even so, I got to work a little earlier than usual because the children were agreeable, and I worked until my dentist appointment, which went smoothly and where my mouth was pronounced “boring,” which is really what you want in a dental visit. Blueberries were on sale at the grocery store, although when I got home, I was told I should have gotten oranges, and I was left to make dinner while everyone else half-napped in front of the tv, universally tired out by the first day back to routine. I drank tea and policed bedtime. 
Maybe the beauty of July 13 is that I’m in a pretty good place, anyway. I’m not George Bailey, searching and despondent. I don’t particularly need a sign. And if I’m stopping by astrology readings before happy hour, wondering what ways lead on to ways, it keeps life interesting and provides a little motivation to sow some new seeds. We all need a little what if wonder in our lives. On July 13, I lived a day in the life. A day in my life. And it was as big as my husband, my relay partner of a decade, and our children, who were babies just a blink ago, and a job that keeps me busy, and a circle of friends who feel like family, and family whom I count as friends. If I could kick this cold, it would be even better, but what’s basic good health without a cold now and then to remind you of it?
Maybe July 13 was just a random day starred on a calendar. An astrological dart in a year of just-as-likely days. But I’ll still remember this day more vividly for having taken the time to focus on it, to treat it with intention. Maybe I’m not Mozart with an orchestra, or even with a paint brush. But maybe I’m getting a little closer to doing it right.
Love this. So poignant.