(Shutterstock)
The other day I interviewed a woman who had been evicted—after being laid off from work in the aftermath of the 2008 recession and receiving a cancer diagnosis two days later, newly uninsured. She lost all her savings because not even McDonalds would hire her (too skilled, might leave soon). She said many of her dearest friends stepped away, terrified by her sudden need of financial help, while people she barely knew stepped forward and offered loans, kindness, and a broad shoulder to sog up with tears.
I nodded, not the least surprised. The woman who fixed me up with my future husband on a blind date was a fellow grad student I barely knew; I had hoped for years that one of my dearest friends might spot the right guy for me. Andrew was nothing like the arty, literary types I had sought, and our blind date was not even the point; the grad student was really trying to set up someone else in our program with one of Andrew’s friends.
Years earlier, when my mom had a sudden and scary heart attack, it was a neighbor, not a family member, who did the most to calm me. When I was desperate for travel, I went to work for a glamorous international architectural firm and was sent nowhere; I left to work in a dusty fourth-floor office at Saint Louis University and wound up taking a long, luxurious pilgrimage through Spain with the university’s major donors so I could write it up for the alumni magazine. When I came to work at secular WashU, I expected a cooler, more competitive, less compassionate atmosphere than the one I had soaked up at a Jesuit university. Instead, I found professors and students who were even more committed to social and environmental justice. This summer, when my husband fell ill, the warmest and most sustained interest came from a lady at the dog park; I know her dog’s name but not her surname.
You. just. never. know.
No matter how tight your friendships, you cannot predict where you will find a burst of empathy and help. Nor can you predict why that help will arrive; it often has nothing to do with all you have done to summon it. Life’s most delightful moments, sweetest acts of kindness, and richest opportunities come out of the blue—and often arrive in drab disguise. At first, I found this disconcerting. How to plan? How to make decisions? Stranded, I would stand at a crossroads and face north, waiting for the likeliest traffic—and a Jeep would roar up from the west and glide to a stop, its driver beckoning me to “Hop in!” To mix the metaphor, making it as confusing as the phenomenon itself, I was playing a virtual reality game in which I was constantly tricked into guarding one front, only to have my opponent sneak around to the opposite side.
Granted, these surprises were unexpected gifts, not attacks. But those come from unexpected quarters too. As a stubborn but timid investigative reporter, I used to write a story, turn it in, and quake for a week after the paper came out, terrified of recrimination or a lawsuit. The fallout was nearly always negligible. But when I profiled a talented jazz singer whose music I adored, she was livid, because I had quoted someone saying she could have a temper. And when I wrote fluffy pieces about happy little subjects—décor or iconic foodstuffs or quirky hobbies—I would pick up the phone expecting delight and instead hear screaming vitriol, because I had omitted or included a detail that brushed away some of the fluff.
I no longer find the universe’s favorite trick disconcerting. Now, if I find myself worrying and bracing for something terrible, I can remind myself that because I am worrying about it, it is almost certain not to happen. I can be equally sure that something else terrible will happen, something for which I will be entirely unprepared. Still, that lightens the burden, because beyond basics like rainy-day savings and a smart network of support, there is no way to anticipate or prepare. All you can do is trust yourself to mobilize when the time comes.
We are not wired to live with this kind of uncertainty, a quirk I hope evolution straightens out soon. We dread any surprise that does not involve cake, free goodies, or the arrival of someone we love. Even I, who love change and novelty, catch myself living on tenterhooks, because I only love the sort of change and novelty I seek out, not the sort that ambushes me and reminds me I am not in control.
But life is bigger (and often wiser) than we are. What looks random is the cumulative sum of a thousand tiny choices or variables. And what is random can be imbued with meaning by the way we respond. If I assume or expect too much, I am guaranteed disappointment. If I judge too fast and too hard— let myself be biased by trends, custom, or even logic or past experience, I will miss the finest surprises of all. (I almost said no to that blind date.)
Might as well make ourselves at home in the world. We are swimming in a dark, choppy sea that has undercurrents we cannot predict—but it is buoyant. Especially for swimmers who learn to relax. I keep trying (perhaps too hard) to learn that lesson. The worrying never stops, but the slings and arrows no longer startle me as aberrations. And I actively prefer the delights that come out of left field or drop from the sky.
If life ever stops surprising me, that is when I will be ready to leave.
Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.
