The Laramie County Library held their annual local author celebration last week. I was both excited and nervous.

I was excited because, for the first time in 2 years, I have a new collection of poetry coming out. I worked hard to make it beautiful, and I think I did well.

And yet, that was the exact reason I was nervous. There are pieces of myself in that book that were incredibly difficult to share, much like this blog. I think humanity as a whole needs healing. I want others to know that it’s okay to talk about the events in our lives that have left us damaged.

But we can’t heal as a whole. We have to heal as individuals.

When I arrived, there was a crowd of authors at the library entrance waiting to be let in. I don’t like crowds. They make me feel like an organism. Or one salmon in a school, fighting my way upstream, searching for the place of my birth. I was once an animal driven by instinct. Now I’ve become self aware, and I don’t like it.

I’ve always had trouble making myself visible in a crowd. When I was in the cult, being visible meant being different. Being different often meant being in the wrong.

It’s impossible not to be visible when you’re expected to go door-to-door on Saturday mornings.

I took 15 copies of my books to the author celebration. I left with 13, having sold 2 copies to my grandmother. I felt disappointed, of course. But to wallow in my own self-pity isn’t who I choose to be anymore. I have a journey. I have a story. I just need to figure out how to tell it.

Once the event was over, I left the library. I went to a bookstore with a handful of books and marketing materials. I asked the owner if he would let me leave a few of my books with him.

“Sure,” he said, taking the poster I had printed at Fedex. It was a 12×17 with the upcoming book cover and release date. He turned to face the sales counter.

“Let’s put it here up front.”

I was a bit surprised at first. I had dropped off materials only once before, and they had been relegated to a bookshelf near the back. It confused me, but I was willing to accept his kindness without any questions.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said.

My brow furrowed. Why would the owner of a bookstore want to thank an author whose books didn’t sell?

“You used to work a drive-thru window,” he continued. “My dad would come through every two weeks with the same coupon. You liked to joke around and call him your ‘arch nemesis.’”

I instantly knew who he was talking about but had no idea they were related. He was using the past tense. I knew where he was headed, and I wasn’t ready for it.

“He passed away a month ago. Thank you for always being so nice to him.”

He didn’t cry. His voice never cracked or wavered. He just looked me dead in the eye, calmly, and said the words he wanted to say.

It’s strange to me, the way events are sometimes returned to me. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about his father since the day I quit that job. From my perspective, he was one of many. A nice man, never disrespectful. And yet, he never did or said anything memorable. He was at my drive thru window for just a few minutes every other week.

It was different for him and his son. I won’t speculate as to how, because I don’t know what their lives were like outside of that twice-monthly interaction. I don’t know how they were treated by anyone besides me.

You can affect someone’s life drastically without ever realizing it. I’m sure I’ve done so a thousand times without knowing, because the Universe didn’t return it to me.

My sales at the author celebration were dismal. I lost my job two days after. My car broke down a week later.

The closer I look at my life, the less coincidence I see. What I see is a design with purpose. Although I hesitate to give it a label.

I’m sure we don’t all feel that way. There was a time I didn’t, either.

But the more I look, the more I notice.

Maybe it would help us all to take a look.

Image by Christa Regina from Pixabay