Posted by maria nazod on Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Yesterday, while unpacking my room, at the bottom of my last box of books, after all the scrabbling to find bookshelf space, I was stunned to find a book I had never seen before: "The I-Ching Book of Changes: A Guide to Life's Turning Points." 

The cover stared boldly at me from the bottom of the box. Never before had I seen this book. The impetus for it being there are many: perhaps someone had left it at my old house, perhaps I had accidentally picked it up from someone else's house. But beyond any skepticizing, the foremost thing on my mind, was that in the past week, I have indeed undergone some major, major changes for the long term and the better. Also, I am a first believer in what Carl Jung called, "synchronicity," where you look for something, which then appears everything. Julia Cameron--the writer of The Artist's Way, an excellent book for unlocking the creative subconscious--rechristens synchronicity the Yellow Jeep Syndrome; a process whereby you attune your sense to look for yellow jeeps, and suddenly, there they are everywhere--peeping out from parkways like sassy daisies, rolling out of side streets like elusive suns--everywhere, yellow jeeps. 

And so, I found this book. And so, with that, I begin to sense that the subconscious undercurrent was still flowing; what I knew all along: that the universe is in conspiracy with our best interest. 

 The place I am living in is beautiful: high ceilings, good neighbors, quiet, spacious, and I have a whole study to myself. A good friend whom I had not seen for a year stopped by the other day. 

"Wow, so this is your life now!" She said. "This is the place that's going to breed your creativity!" 

"Really?" I responded. "I thought this was a transition. I never viewed it as a step up, I guess."

And so it is. Light-filled, peaceful, and plenty of leg-room, the first night I spent here, I was sitting on the floor with my new roommate, drinking a much-too-big bottle of wine and celebrating the move. It was about 4 AM. Suddenly, a voice called through the screen of the kitchen window, "Hey you guys, come outside and look at the moon!" 

It was the voice of our neighbor, a painter, a cancer survivor, she paints by night to avoid the hot flashes from a chemotherapy accident. Sometimes she walks out to the ocean, or to a near pond, and jumps into the water. Her paintings are often of the moon: soft purple, lilac, orchid, ejaculate gold. It is the one time she feels cool. 

My roommate and I ran outside. There was nobody out except for us. The voice of his neighbor who called to us was unattached to any visible person; it was as though the woman who called us outside was not in fact our neighbor, but a voice of a distant angel, hung permanently suspended in time. Hovering over us, like the moon. The moon was a bloated ball of glistening yellow in the fog of sky--like a highlighter squeaked through the pages of pertinent text. 

"The moon was a ghostly galleon/tossed upon the cloudy seas," I said, quoting Alfred Noyes' poem, "The Highwayman."

And he and I watched it for a minute, not going anywhere, not thinking, not arguing. And so, days later, as I pull the book "The I-Ching" from my box, I realize indeed the changes are manifesting around me. To behold them in their great luminosity, but to abstain from trying to interpret them. Just like looking at the moon.






About Me

Maria Nazos I'm a poet, I just wrote my first book, and I believe in destiny but I sure as hell don't wait for it. Check out my blog for my random thoughts, events, and upcoming workshops.