Don’t you hate it when you’re going through a rough patch and someone says something clichè and trite but also…true? That happened to me today when one of our short term rental guests was chatting with me about his philosophies. It was completely harmless. He didn’t realize that when he used the phrase, “right where we’re supposed to be,” that he was talking about me. In fact, it didn’t really sink in with me right away. But soon after the conversation ended I started to put two and two together. Two days ago–much to my vexation–I found myself “right where I was supposed to be” and I wasn’t a bit happy about it.

Two days ago I went to the local farmer’s market with my daughter and her mom-in-law. I had thought it would be fun. I hadn’t been to our market in literally months. As I ruminated on why I realized it was because when my daughter lived on our property I had a ready ride to the market. But once they moved I was reluctant to even think of asking her to drive north to pick me up so we could drive back closer to her house to go to the market. I don’t like putting people out. Since I don’t drive any more I am dependent on others to get me where I need to go so I feel like a burden when I ask them to get me where I want to go. I was able to hitch a ride to her house from my hubby so that was fine but I was already starting my pity party by the time we reached the market.I don’t like being reminded that physically I’m handicapped and so dependent on others. I prefer to ignore it as much as is possible.

As we entered the market my pity party got into full swing. At this time of year there are fewer vendors but several who were selling plant starts. In my heart I wanted so to buy up several plants in anticipation of getting our produce garden going. But I’ve been in full-blown fibromyalgia hell for 3 weeks now and know that I can barely walk out to the garden area, let alone work in the soil. Which reminded me that I had intended that this would be the spring that I would get back into the greenhouse to try my hand at my own vegetable starts again. But that hasn’t happened has it? I’ve been mostly sick with respiratory issues since the last day of last year and whatever energy I did have left has wained. So no veggie starts and here it is the end of March. Too late again.

I started really piling on the depression. In my head I began adding up all my incapacities and as the list grew I became more morose and feeling more and more like my life was ebbing away. What was the point of living anyway if I just become an “invalid”? Have you ever noticed that when you put the emphasis on the second syllable that word becomes inVAlid, as in “this sale is invalid,” or “this page is invalid.” So in English we basically convey the way we think of invalids by using that word. They are not valid as human beings. Do you see how dark this party was getting?

I was also having trouble getting around the market–my fibromyalgia was affecting my breath capacity and my already lame leg–so as my daughter and her mom-in-law flitted back and forth to vendors they wanted to purchase from, I just stopped pretty much in the center where the “streets” of the market form a “t,” the virtual “crossroads.” I didn’t plan it that way but later my hubby pointed out that that was where I was, both physically and emotionally. Near that spot there was a single musician, a guitarist playing. He finished his song and launched into another that I didn’t recognize and so surmise it was his own composition.

Do you remember the 70’s folk song made popular by Roberta Flack, “Killing Me Softly”? Yeah. That’s what this guitarist did to me. He started singing the refrain of his song, “I choose life…” I couldn’t believe my ears at first. I had to strain to really catch all the lyrics. But sure enough. He was singing my life. He was singing my words. He was killing me softly. It was as if he had waited for that moment when in my dark pity party I came to that place to just be alone in my mind and feel sorry for myself. Damn! The nerve! I was so frustrated. It felt so banal, like he knew and was singing that little ditty just for me and I wasn’t having it. Except that I had to have it. The dark clouds lifted a bit and I had to confess that I really didn’t want this life to end.

I reflected on the experience this morning in the hot tub with my hubby. It seemed so surreal and almost hokey–the symbolism in the “crossroads” and the song and my mood. And then our guest wrapped it all together with his unknowlingly timely comment: “We’re right where we’re supposed to be.”