The Violet Nebula

“I am the most popular person in California!” exclaimed a friend of mine upon returning from her trip and I know what she means.  If you are from Seattle where the default upon meeting someone in the street is to stare right past them, the welcoming smiles and hearty “Good Morning’s” of California are addictive.   I find myself opening up to people easier and, this past week, my social calendar was more full than it has been for months.  OK, maybe years. 

Common in these encounters is the nebula between Fate and Free Will.  I think of it as the Violet Nebula because everything should have a color.  I believe you have a giant rock of Fate on one side and a giant rock of Free Will on the other and what lies in between, colored in a beautiful violet, is your life. 

I have mentioned my favorite Sartre quote before but it wasn’t until this week that I thought of it differently; I had thought when he said, “Freedom is what you do with what’s been done to you”, that he was thinking of a negative thing happening to you.   Frankly, I find it odd that my first impression was to assume it was negative, being the generally positive person I am (you know, unless I am in a shower with one leg shaved and time running out.)  The thing being done to you could just as easily be a positive experience—you still have the same freedom to do.  If you choose.   

And so last week I chose.  Not just once, but twice in the last week, fate dropped pleasant experiences in my path and I chose to, as best I could, freely accept them.

The first occurred at a dog park:  I was heading out to find tennis people and, at the last minute, decided to bring the noses as the courts were adjacent to a dog park.  I was early for the tennis group so we entered the park and began the usual romp.

As luck would have it, there was a puppy there.  Always a delight to be able to play with a puppy, Opus and I were thrilled.  She is a sweet six-month Golden Doodle, but black so I assumed she was a Portuguese Water Dog.  Her nice owner corrected me and thus began the usual California social chat.

The first thing I noticed about the puppy's owner was his glasses:  Cool frame, transition lenses.  You know me, I like to be able to see people’s eyes and you can just make them out through transition lenses.   The second thing I noticed was no wedding ring but there was one on his friend’s hand.  They seemed quite close so I hung back a bit, assuming they were there together and trying to have a conversation.   From afar I noticed his big city, effortless kind of sophistication.  You just don’t see that in a dog park every day. 

Eventually it was time for me to leave and find my tennis people.  So I said my goodbyes (just like the hellos, goodbyes are the norm in California too), leashed up the noses and walked over to the courts.  Sadly there wasn’t the group I was anticipating.  I had read online that a group met Fridays from 1-3 and they welcomed people (of course) to participate.  I checked with a couple who were playing and they did not know of such a thing, perhaps I had the wrong courts.

Closing the tennis gate, I hesitated.  I was about to just walk to the car and head back to camp.  But I stopped.  Just stood still for a minute, debating. 

               Why go back to the Beagle where I would have to tie up the dogs?  It is a gorgeous day, why not go sit in the grass in the dog park and let them run free?

And, if I am totally honest, a thought much like a good friend of mine had thought while standing in a ditch:

               That guy looks like an interesting person; he looks like someone I would like to know.

I returned to the dog park, explained to the guys that there was no tennis and the three of us continued an easy conversation during which I learned the puppy owner had an affinity for design and architecture.  I decided to call him Renaissance Guy (RG) which, you have to admit, sounds better than Dog Park Guy.  I did consider Transition Man (due to the lenses) but that just seemed…wrong.  One thing led to another and RG and I decided to go have a beer and some French fries.

At a delightful, sun-dappled patio restaurant overlooking the marina, our dogs under the table, the easy conversation continued.  Being single, we were lamenting the bore of dining out alone and so decided that dinner in a restaurant was in order, we thought Sunday would be best, I typed his number into my phone and said I would text him and we could arrange the time/place.  This was on Friday.

Saturday morning I got up and, while walking the dogs, met Jane.  We began chatting and it turned out that she and her husband are on the same quest as I:  Searching for a winter home, wanting to escape the snows of Truckee.  They are staying at a house that I notice every day on my walks due to the Casita (small travel trailer) parked in the driveway.  It would be so nice to have a house where I could park the Beagle.  They use their trailer to move from town to town and then rent a house for a break (as was my plan until I realized how expensive everything was and how cheaply furnished—I would rather stay in Beagle.)  Anyway, she said, “This is so not like me, but would you like to come over tonight and watch the boat parade?  It’s just my husband, myself and another lady.  I’ll throw something on the grill.”  To which I replied, “This is so not like me, but yes, I’d love to join you.”

They are wonderful:  Seventy-years old, they met when they were fifty-five and just got married this past Thanksgiving.  Turns out George worked with SAP his entire career at Chevron so we had a lot in common.  They understood the demands of being on the road and continually offered their laundry facilities.  A charming, delightful, full of life couple.  We made plans to watch Monday Night Football and then go golfing on Tuesday.

See?  Doesn’t even come close to my life in Seattle.  These two encounters I put in the Fate category; at some point, life is going to give you what it gives you no matter what.

Sunday arrived and I texted RG but got no response.  I called the number and received an automated voice mail message with no indication that it was RG.

Hmmm.

So either RG intentionally gave me the wrong number or I typed it incorrectly; but even worse, I hated to have him think that I was one of those people who say they will text and then never do. 

And here lies the junction of fate and free will, jump into the Violet Nebula with me. 

Some people may stop at this point and say, “It wasn’t fated for us to meet again.”  But not me.  I believe life will give me what it gives me but I think it is imperative to do everything in my power to make life go the way I want.

So I had to find RG, if only to make sure he knew I wasn’t the flake.  Since I knew we were both in the software world, I decided to solve it like a software issue:  When you have a bug in the program, you go back to the last point at which everything was working.  I decided to have lunch where we had beer and fries.  What was there to lose?  At a minimum I would have fish and chips while sitting in the sun.  Hopefully RG would be thinking the same thing and appear. 

Nope.

I swung by the dog park. 

Nope. 

Deflated, I returned to Beagle for some afternoon reading.  I opened my book and thought, “Book inventory software, that’s what RG worked on.”  So I Googled (of course) RG’s name and book inventory software, did a bit of digging, figured I had found the company for which he had worked, took a deep breath because I knew this might be embarrassing (particularly if he was trying to ditch me) and emailed customer service. 

               Hi, I know this sounds weird but I think I met a guy who created your software and I wrote his number down wrong.  Would you do me a favor and, if you know RG, would you forward this note to him?   

Signed my name and left my phone number.  I felt good about doing everything in my power to make life turn in the direction I wanted.  It was now about 3:00 on the day we were to have dinner.  Fate would have to take over.

And it did.  Thanks to the company’s 24/7 customer service, RG called me in about an hour.  And, indeed, I had incorrectly entered his telephone number.

I think there is a reason people come into each other’s lives and clearly my reason for being in RG’s life was to provide him with fodder for his superb story telling ability.  (It’s really too bad you can’t hear these from him.)

First of all, the email I sent didn’t just go to one person.  It is a small company so many of the principals receive the customer service emails.  Lovely.  I am even more thankful he wasn’t trying to ditch me.

And then this:  The other day we were sitting in Beagle, just chatting, having a cocktail (and yes, KC, the second glass did come in handy, as you said) me trying my best to not appear like trailer trash.   We had walked the dogs and I put Opus and River into Wurzig so the puppy could experience hanging out inside Beagle.  She was thirsty and all the dog bowls were outside so I took one of my regular bowls and gave her a drink.

 I wasn’t expecting company that day (or ever) so, when we got hungry, all I could offer was a pre-mixed salad.   I divided the bag of salad into two bowls, tossed in the dressing, grabbed two forks and returned to the dining area.

Happily eating along, I began to notice that my salad was rather runny; there seemed to be an extra amount of water at the bottom.  I dropped my fork, it clattered against the plastic bowl, “Oh my god, I am eating out of the dog dish!” I exclaimed.

The absolute personification of grace and sophistication. 

-K