When I was nine years old, I broke my ankle falling off a tire swing in my friend Dustin’s backyard. It happened on a Tuesday, which meant the whole event missed the weekend gossip circuit and didn’t even qualify for school-wide attention until at least Thursday. By then, Dustin had started a rumor that I’d fallen into a family of possums; who had chased me mercilessly, causing me to fall and break my ankle. The truth, slipping off a wet tire and twisting my foot in a way that made it sound like celery snapping, was far less interesting it seems.
But at the time, everyone said, isn’t that terrible. My mom said it. My gym teacher said it. The orthopedic technician who wrapped my leg in what I can only describe as a sweaty fiberglass torture device said it with the dry enthusiasm of someone who had said it forty-seven times that day already. My own hamster, Carl (because he looks suspiciously like the Billy Bob character in Sling Blade) glared at me from behind the bars of his plastic cage with what I interpreted as pity. It was humiliating.
Now here’s where it gets interesting. Two weeks later, we were scheduled to visit my uncle Herb’s farm for what he insisted on calling Pig Appreciation Weekend; which really was just a way of conning family members into helping with the more distasteful chores around the farm.
He did this every year; invited the extended family to spend two days pretending pigs are just dogs with hooves and a less judgmental attitude toward leftovers. My brother loved it. My cousin Stephanie wore overalls and referred to herself as “Pig Mama.” I, however, hated it. The mud. The smell. The flies with a confidence bordering on arrogance.
But because of my broken ankle, I didn’t have to go. And what did everyone say? You guessed it. Isn’t that wonderful. Suddenly I was the lucky one. I got to stay home and eat popsicles and watch reruns of Murder, She Wrote while the rest of my family got sunburned and chased runaway piglets into the woods like lunatics.
At the time, I thought: this is it. I have discovered the great loophole of the universe. Get injured. Avoid unpleasant social events. Sit in a recliner with frozen snacks. Who knew enlightenment came in grape and orange swirl.
But then, the next day, Carl died. Just dropped dead in his little wheel like he was halfway through a marathon and remembered he had unfinished business in the afterlife. I cried like I’d lost a sibling. I cried like I was being evicted from my childhood. My mom said, isn’t that terrible, which was impressive because she never really liked Carl and once accused him of “smelling manipulative.”
We held a backyard funeral and buried him under the maple tree with a Cheerio in his mouth like a little rodent coin for the ferryman. My brother said, well at least you were here to say goodbye, and my aunt said, isn’t that kind of beautiful, and my dad said nothing at all because he was still angry that we were burying pantry food.
The next day at school, my best friend Megan handed me a card. It said, “Sorry your hamster died. I will never forget him even though I never met him.” Inside was a sticker of a unicorn and a small square of bubble wrap. I don’t know why, but it helped. I popped the bubbles and felt a little less broken inside.
And that’s the thing. You never really know what anything means while it’s happening. You just slap a label on it and move on. Good. Bad. Lucky. Tragic. But the labels don’t stick. The story keeps going. The pig festival leads to a funeral. A broken bone becomes a blessing. A hamster death becomes the catalyst for a unicorn sticker and your first existential reckoning.
Which brings me to the Zen story. You know the one. Boy gets a horse. Everyone says, isn’t that wonderful. Then he falls off. Isn’t that terrible. Then war breaks out and he can’t fight. Isn’t that wonderful. And the Zen master, who is either very wise or very tired, just keeps saying we’ll see.
I think about that story every time something ridiculous or painful or suspiciously convenient happens. When I lost my job at the bookstore because I accidentally locked a customer inside and went to lunch; isn’t that terrible. But then I started writing more. Isn’t that wonderful. And then I developed carpal tunnel. Isn’t that terrible. But now I dictate everything to a software program that thinks my cat’s meows are words. Isn’t that hilarious. We’ll see.
Life is a mess of tire swings and hamsters and pig appreciation days. And we are constantly declaring verdicts like we’re judges on a game show we don’t understand. But the truth is, we never have the whole picture. Maybe the disaster is a blessing. Maybe the blessing is a trap. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s just a Tuesday with unusually strong symbolism.
So the next time something happens and you feel that urge to shout how lucky or how awful, maybe just nod thoughtfully. Maybe say, hmm. Or if you’re feeling particularly wise, stare into the middle distance and say: we’ll see. Then walk away like you just dropped the secret to the universe in two syllables.
Or better yet, give someone a unicorn sticker and some bubble wrap. It worked for me.
Join us in making the world a better place – you’ll be glad that you did. Cheers friends.