No-one had read my book. Yet my soon-to-be-fiancé shared distinct qualities not only with that mountaineer character, but with the book's other love interest who sailed around Manhattan. The improbabilities spooked me so much, I asked the actual stud if we should consult a rabbi or priest.
I conscientiously emailed my author acquaintances to warn, "Be careful what you write - it may come true!"
Surely the miracle was an omen that my whole "Fanged Wilds" ecology project was about to achieve success. But that was two years ago. Ahem. As for romance, let's just say I'm glad the analogy I used was "remodel your kitchen" rather than "clean your clock."
In my novel, the kitchen was a metaphor not just for a woman's hearth and home, but for her heart. In my passion to serve the greater good, I put my kitchen on my sleeve, and my sleeve became an industrial oven-mitt made of something like asbestos that saves your life now but kills you in the long run. Meaning? Based on the miracle that happened to me, I made assumptions. For instance, I extrapolated that justice exists. Ha ha.
Am I beat? Is Global Warming* hopeless? I can stand the heat, babe, and I'm not getting out of this kitchen. (*Climate Deniers: if you are cold right now, that does not disprove the greenhouse effect. You may want to put on an extra pair of your sacred underwear.)
I just told someone about the miracle of my kitchen, and she piped up, "Have you read The Secret?!" $ome $ecret. I've written affirmations since the 1980s, made vision boards, and immersed myself in all possible New-Age positivities. Yet the kitchen-remodel event two years ago was the only remotely related result of my scripted longings. After twenty-eight years. Who wants to admit failure? The shadow side of empowerment is that we blame ourselves for futility. I used Louise Hay's "Heal Your Body" for 28 years. My mistake (cough).
I have years of formal training in science (including a Master's degree) so - while not indoctrinated so far as to ignore my own direct experience - I can apply Occam's Razor even to splendid mysteries. Reductionists as well as fantasists may get convulsions from my conclusion. Yet consider that my consciousness may be independent of entropy while within the space-time continuum. I've often had verifiable premonitions. That at least partly explains the miracle of that sexy "soul mate" saying the same pick-up line as the hottest character in my novel.
Science: gotta luv it. "The Secret"? Not so much.
***
Wishful thinking and magical beliefs cause pregnancy. (Okay, sex also plays a role.) Nearly half of fetuses are unintended. Surprise! Women can be irrational about birth control. As Jezebel Magazine says, "'The Secret' is a terrible contraception plan."
Seven hundred tons of carbon aren't blanketing our climate -- trapping heat -- for each child whom I do not have. That's also 700 tons per grand-kid, great-grand-kid.... down through Mad Max #946.
Seven hundred tons of carbon footprint per American child: bravo, Mommy. Yeah, childbirth is a miracle.
Instead I have kitty-cats as my babies. And, as my gawky teen-age brain-child, I nurture the "Fanged Wilds and Women Program." My ex-soul-mate pointed out, "A sunset is a miracle." Reductionism comes in all shades. Whether someone harms my idealism or my biosphere, they dishonor a miracle .
VC Bestor
FangedWilds.org
Fanged Wilds and Women Program is a 501c3 Tax-Exempt Organization
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