The Ides of March


Rita yells from downstairs, “Hey, there’s a fox running across the field.”

I get to the window and see a quick red fox loping across the alfalfa field in front of our house.

I point out, “It’s loping, not running.”

Rita counters: “It might be trotting.”

We dance a bit.

But part of me is thinking that having never been a bushy-tailed red fox makes discerning fox-loping from fox-trotting difficult.

While contemplating life as a red fox, I dump compost water onto my left shoe. This left shoe is the very same left shoe where dribbles of unleaded gasoline landed last week.

Might this be a warning? Doesn’t everything happen for a reason?

Apparently, my left shoe is attracting bad smells. Why? What karma does that particular shoe have coming to it?

On the Ides of March, my father had a stroke. I was there. I cannot express the piercing terribleness.

In what feels like a lifetime ago, I thought that when I sprained my ankle or when the wind blew against me while bicycling, that it was a message from the universe or God or some mystical entity. But I never discerned the message. I keep listening, but sometimes I forget.

Nothing happens for a reason.

The compost water found its way; there is no ordained destiny for my left foot.

The stroke struck; there was horror, but no inherent gracious or malevolent message.

The fox ran, loped, or trotted, without spiritual awareness or discernment. Being a humanoid meaning-maker, I am glad of that. Making meaning from nothing grows tiresome.

Can you help me, Mr. Bushy-Tailed Red Fox, understand the meaning of all things?

Or help me understand the meaning of no things.

Or help me understand both at once.

via Daily Prompt: Warning