tamaranth | Serendipity and the Ceiling

I've been thinking about serendipity, defined in the Oxford Dictionary of Current English as 'the faculty of making happy discoveries by accident'. I prefer to think of it as 'meaningful coincidence' -- and, in case that smacks of wishy-washy mysticism or handwaving, I don't intend to assert that the meaning exists anywhere but in the mind of the beholder.

Through a combination of health and preference, I didn't see or speak to anyone between Wednesday evening and Saturday lunchtime. (When I say 'anyone', I do mean 'anyone' -- not merely 'anyone I know'.) This sort of isolation was easy to achieve where I grew up; still remarkably simple living in London. And of course I did communicate, quite a bit, via this Internet thingy. Nothing face-to-face, though, and no TV or radio or anything random.

This made it ever so much easier, when I did venture outside for a walk up to Greenwich Park, to start thinking about messages from the universe. I mean the things that are significant simply because I see them at the right moment, or in the right mood; the things I notice because they're relevant. I suspect that I subconsciously edit out most of my environment, so the things that make it through to being noticed are pre-selected by my brain. Just like junk mail, except better-targeted. Sometimes it's (aargh, ad-speak) the right song, right now: sometimes it's an advertising slogan that chimes so exactly with what I'm thinking about that it achieves ultra-significance. (Yesterday, Bacardi Rum spoke to me as I passed a bus shelter: and the words it spake were "Love like you've never been hurt". Which was an answer to something that was going through my mind, though not the 'something' that you might think.)

When I used to read tarot cards for myself, I came up with a pretty similar explanation of why they worked: the human mind (mine, usually, though I've seen good Tarot readers who seem very perceptive) picks up on what is significant about a particular card.

Anyway, yesterday the universe saw fit to remind me that I was unlikely to receive any serendipitous messages if I simply sat at home and controlled my environment. "Go outside and do Real Life," it said. (I paraphrase: actually, what happened was that my email stopped working. But it was a Sign!). So I stopped being apathetic and achy at home, took painkillers and went out.

A walk in the park, then a trip into Greenwich (there was a thunderstorm, but then there was a thunderstorm when

ladymoonray and I went to the beach on Wednesday. We went swimming anyway. Look, water is wet whether it comes down from the sky or ripples gently in the breeze. And the lightning was very pretty. And obedient.) Last night we ate Mexican at High Chapparal, as recommended by

jhaelan and

mr_prickle. I used to eat there fairly regularly -- their Mexican food is good and cheap and not over-spiced, and comes in huge portions -- but after having queued for an hour to get a table last time I was there, it fell off my list of good Greenwich restaurants.

Now they have two-tier dining.

Literally. We scrambled (elegantly, of course) up a little ladder to our top-level table (ceiling rather close) and our wait-person climbed up and down (much more elegantly) to bring us food and drinks. We consumed a pitcher of strawberry daiquiri, some beer (

swisstone, and ice cream cocktails for dessert (i.e. real ice cream, blended with liqueur and also, regrettably, with cream ...). Astonishingly, none of us fell gracefully back down the ladder. Very much like clambering into a bunk bed, and it means they have double the space! Only drawback: dire bouncy dance-music, way too loud, for the Saturday-night crowd: much closer and louder for top-level diners. But the food is still great, ditto the drinks, and there's a certain novelty to the seating!

Picnic-photos, and thoughts on why I take pictures, tomorrow. Probably.