I am not spiritual (and yet)

“Kismet,” proclaims a new friend as we walk down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing.

Aug 04, 2025

Sometimes things happen so perfectly you could convince me the universe pulls strings. (“Kismet,” proclaims a new friend as we walk down the sidewalk, shoulders brushing.)

Like when we sit across from a quick-to-laugh stranger at a painting class we almost didn’t attend and she invites us to a brewery and we learn her fiancé used to live in our own old Florida town. Three days later she and I swim in the Atlantic beneath the cold sun—it is 8 am, 50-some degrees—and after three months I can’t imagine not knowing her, not loving her, not gleefully greeting her dogs and her stories and this city we briefly share.

Or when I apply for a writing incubator that doesn’t work out but the co-founder connects me with an author she thinks I’ll like. “Like” is an understatement—this writer’s work makes me feel seen—and she not only replies to the email thread with wide-open arms but lives on our planned travel route and is completely free the one day it’s most convenient for us to swing through. Two weeks after learning her name I am walking through her front door, talking about creatures, pinching away disbelief.

Or when someone who follows my Instagram spots me in line for the bathroom at a concert and is bold enough to say hello. She is so lovely and the encounter so surreal I can’t stop smiling. Later, at the same show, the lead singer brushes my wrist as he walks through the crowd and the band plays my favorite song (which isn’t even one of their most popular) and I scream as Sean sings next to me. We float home hand in hand.

Or when an acquisitions editor sends me a cold email asking if I’d like to write illustrated nonfiction the summer I’ve lost freelance clients and am riding a rollercoaster of discouragement then motivation then terror then joy. I spend an hour thinking the message must be fake, but it isn’t. After I sign the contract we stumble upon another title from this publisher at a big busy store and I get to hold the book in my hands, show it to my mother-in-law, imagine a different name—my own—on the cover.

Or, a shorter story: I smile at a bulldog on the walk home from the farmers market, our last morning carrying flowers back to an apartment before we are again nomads, and her owner says they’d love to say hi before I even ask. The bowling ball of a creature is named Luna. She presses her nose against my own, sneezes in my face, wags not just her tail but entire body. I wag mine too.

Or, simpler still: The repair worker fixes the internet two minutes before I am set to meet with an editor about volunteering for her literary journal. I get to see her face and show my own.

Or, back in time: My sister called after my first niece was born to tell me she gave this perfect new being my own middle name. Olive Elizabeth, she announced. Olive Elizabeth? I cried. Years later the small human reaches for my hand and throws the ball for my dog and asks, sometimes when I am not there, for me and her Unc. One July morning I wake from a dream where she simply says “I’m proud of you, Auntie.”

Or, further still: I bonded with the quiet guy on the edge of the friend group because we both liked mint chocolate chip ice cream (what a silly tiny thing) and now we pass a melting cone back and forth on the beach without spilling a drop, awash in ease from years of loving and learning.

It seems this was never a poem about the universe.

It’s about people.

Other notes and news

I met up with E.B. Bartels! She is as lovely (lovelier) in person as I could have dreamed after reading some of her work. She gets life with a sensitive dog. And her book, Good Grief, comes out in paperback soon—if you’ve got the means, preordering it would be a wonderful way to support her.
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More serendipity: Caroline Beuley published this essay about jealousy at a time where I’ve been “feeling green” a bit myself. And I enjoyed this reflection on ignorance and realizing things in our own time by Courtney Bowers.
Also: “What the Body Knows, What the Story Withholds” by Jeannine Ouellette stopped me in my tracks when it arrived in my inbox. I have a lot to work on here!
My incredible amazing fabulous friend Jess (yes, she deserves at least three adjectives before her name) opened Coping with Canines again, and so many dedicated dog guardians enrolled, and I’m super proud of what she does at Handlers and Humans. (Enrollment for this session is closed now, but there will be more—and she offers 1:1 coaching too!)
Scout is so happy to be back in her van that I feel like a jerk for moving her out of it for three months. (Kidding… sort of. Thanks for your adaptability and trust in us, cattle dog.)
I’m also having a great time with The Common’s 2025 Weekly Writes prose program. (How could I not when these are the emails they send?!)