via my instagram
I believe in signs of home. When I hear Maria Muldaur’s Midnight at the Oasis or Bonnie Raitt’s Nick of Time, I smile. They are songs I used to listen to on repeat with my mother and they touch a soft spot for my graceful transition into being a mild hippie. When I hear those songs, I must unlock my iPhone and let my fingers find the familiar numbers of my family’s land line.
I believe in signs of work. For every opportunity I pass by or that passes me by, well, I don’t see them as mistakes or missed chances. Instead, I see them as stepping stones on the way to something better. I see them as a reminder that being this good takes work, and that work takes time.
I believe in signs of love. I believe that every man that didn’t scoop me up to be his was preparing me for a larger love. A love that our hearts have been preparing us for with every heartbreak. A love that we all deserve.
I believe in signs of fate. Or is it signs of faith? Because as I perused the selection of literature at the NYC Housing Works Bookstore, I came across the uncorrected proof of a title I’ve been obsessing over written by an author I’ve been mentioning as my “future mentor.” A reminder that the more I write, the closer I’ll get to a dream coming true. It was a blessing in paperback.
I believe in signs. Small signs, short signs, tall signs, fat signs. I believe in them. I suppose because I need something to believe in (don’t you?). So, I welcome signs when they come: the joy the might bring or the challenges they represent.
Like I was saying, I believe in signs. All of them.