I am a big believer in fate and destiny. Mostly this is because of my rather sincere belief in faith and the religion that I follow. In my head the idea of free will and a God never could resolve itself; if your Supreme Being knows everything including the future, how is that we can we have free will? It is already set it stone, by a being’s knowledge.
That said, I do believe in signs. I believe that there are thousands of signs from that Supreme Being, nature, the universe, the fates, whatever you want to call it. I believe that if we look hard enough and try to interpret the signs, we can see amazingly personal messages. For me, these messages can come from a clear sky and a rising sun. They can come from a butterfly flying as if they want a kiss, and silence in the moving oceans. I believe in signs because I need to believe that there is someone, somewhere watching over me and my children; maybe not always keeping us safe, but at least there. It is a part of my nature that I accept as easily as I accept the color of my eyes.
Today, driving to work I was guided by the most beautiful moon in the night sky. I like getting up early and having a little peace and quiet in the hectic reality of my days. It gets me off to not the right start, but a basic start that I can hold onto. When it gets tough in my day, I simply try to think of a time when the noise and the chaos will be replaced with the silence of a sleeping world. And a bright, full moon always reminds me that even our darkest spots can reflect a light. That a whole does not have to be defined only by what it is, but what the universe gives to it.
Is the moon really there for me in some epic quest to find something to hold onto? Can the moon be created to define for me a sense of companionship, or a sense of understanding? I don’t know, and luckily I don’t truly have to care. Because I do need those signs. I need hope in my life as much as anyone else, and I tend to find it in the beauty of nature and the world around me. It is who I am, and who I cling to. My practical mother would tell me I am romanizing something that isn’t real, and my father who doesn’t have a contemplating bone in his body would tell me to stop relying on outside signs and only trust myself. But I fall differently in this world.
I have a disease, as we all know if you have read this blog for more than a day or two. And one of the “side effects” (I put that in quotes because I have no idea if that is an acceptable word) is to find myself disconnecting with the world and more importantly with those I love.
There are days that my children speak in symphonies and I can hear every note clearly, and there are days I look at them and believe with my whole heart that they have learned Russian when I wasn’t looking. There are days that my husband and I can look at each other and have a whole conversation, and then there are other days when simple words, simple thoughts are construed to being words of hatred and dissatisfaction. Even my mother, who I have known the longest and loved so completely my whole life can some days seem right with me and other days like she is far, far away.
I acknowledge that when one of my love ones are speaking foreign, it usually means that I can’t understand any of them. And since the common denominator there seems to me, we can assume it is me. I have a disease the practically guarantees that I am going to be off; off my rocker, off my day, off my reality. I can accept that, and I can accept that while it sucks to not be able to hear my children, they are still there loving me.
I have tendencies in my life to do one of two things on days like these; days when I need those signs so desperately. First, I will blame this disease. It is a cop-out but it is one that is easiest. Something happening that I don’t understand, blame the disease. New symptoms that don’t fall into the category of a cold, the flu, or the dreaded sinus infection; blame it on the disease. Anything at all that is unlike what those closest to me go through, blame it on the disease. It is simply easier, and allows me the option to feel guilt or anger and it keeps me from blaming those around me.
That leads me to the second tendency. I blame myself for everything. When I am blaming the disease, I recognize that while my therapist would have a fit if he heard me say this, the truth is that I am the disease. In many ways who and what I am is completely dependent on a brain that is sick and oftentimes out of control. Marry that with the knowledge that I don’t do confrontations well, and have no self-esteem and you can see what happens. I apologize when it isn’t my fault, I will take on blame when it is easier to do so and makes others feel good, and I will often allow those closest to me to take advantage because that is part of it.
So being off these last couple of days, I have settled into the pattern of both blaming this mental disease, and blaming myself. I am apologizing for things that I know are not my fault, and I am dealing with the self-recrimination as best as I can. So a sign, one as simple as a brilliant moon, comes at a time when I need it most.
I don’t know if that moon rose last night to comfort me, or was simply there because fate had decreed it. I don’t know if I saw the moon because I needed to, or if the moon recognized me. I don’t know if signs are given when we need them the most, or if we just notice them at the times we need them the most. I suppose in the scheme of things it really doesn’t matter.
What matters is that with all the upset in my life, whether it be my fault or the disease, and with all the blame and loneliness I feel these days, a sign is an omen that is desperately needed. With all I sabotage with my own personality, and all that those I love must handle with care because of a disease that can not be cured, a brilliant moon becomes a single light in a very dark day.