Above is yesterday’s journal entry as I reflect on my recent completion of Lisa Brennan-Jobs memoir Small Fry. There’s nothing particularly significant about it; I’m sure I’m not the only one who fixates on one small, insignificant moment of a larger story just because a published author has represented a similar experience.
This morning I get an email from my sister. Our communications are spotty since she moved to Acapulco over two years ago—within months of my relocation to the west coast. (So much for my dreams of us spending a lot more time together.) I provide her with a US address, though, so bank statements always precipitate some monthly email back-and-forth. She’s contemplating her derailed summer visit, something that still lives in limbo, but has fingers crossed. She misses her granddaughters so, and is talking about them and her lingering hopes. She writes:”Remember the coffee plant below Fairfax with MJB on a wall, backed in forest green? Years ago, I told the girls it turned out to be an omen for me…”
I get chills because, even though we live countries apart, we have both thought about that same coffee plant visible from our childhood home perched in the northwest hills in the last 24 hours and for both of us it was an omen of a sort. (We have never discussed this, I swear. I was always a bit embarrassed truthfully.) Yet, here it is, both included in a conversation with her grandchildren and in my daily writing.
When people talk about “signs,” about visiting psychics, about the “other world,” the spiritual one, I balk. What I do know for sure is that we have uncanny connections with those we love right here on earth. That’s heaven for me.