Serendipity

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, serendipity is “a word coined by Horace Walpole, who says (Let. to Mann, 28 Jan. 1754) that he had formed it upon the title of the fairy-tale ‘The Three Princes of Serendip’, the heroes of which ‘were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.’”

Well, if you remove the “sagacity” part, that pretty much describes what many a Thursday night ride has historically involved, and it’s a pleasure to note that it’s still possible, by accident mostly, to discover things you didn’t know you were looking for, but are delighted to find along the way.

Like, for instance, who knew that what appeared to be a walkway down to the water would turn out to be an outdoor terrace filled with diners who remained, all things considered, sanguine about the arrival and quick departure of a score of bicycles in their midst?  

And haven’t you always been seeking a car-free East Marginal Way to enjoy on a sun-drenched early evening?  Isn’t that the definition of serendipity that it was there, the object of your questless quest all along?

Sometimes a stated destination is just a way to get things rolling in the right direction and it turns out that where you were really headed was where you meant to get to anyway, especially even before the sun set—with an unexpected little bike path to be found, as well!

And nobody really knew that you’d end up with a fire after all, although the quest for that was surely portended in some way by the bringing of accelerant, both literally and figuratively.

I suppose it’s not really a surprise if you expect to be surprised, but it’s nonetheless a serendipitous state of affairs to be granted that which you didn’t know you were looking for but probably had in mind right from the start.

Thanks, Universe, for another swell gift, undeserved and unsought.

Electric

“Time marches on,” they say, but it’s less of a march, I think, than a cascade.  

It rolls forward, like a wave; it undulates and somersaults; it speeds ahead and rises up; it covers what was with what is and will be; it arrives where it’s going and keeps on going, carrying you and everything else along relentlessly, inevitably, and forever.

Come to think of it, time is pretty much the same as a bike ride through the woods over twisty trails at night.  And come to think of it, that’s just what’s been happening for a long, long time on Thursday nights up the upper left hand corner of our continent.

And yet.

There’s still the never-before-assayed experience to be had, even though, in the Yelp review version of the accounting it would be pointed out that pretty much all of the places had been gotten to previously just not via those same sylvan routes nor all in the same evening.

Moreover, the combination of high bridge sunset and open-air meat market with tree-lined corridor alongside massive industrial public works project was a first to be sure, as was the final destination, thankfully arrived at via tarmac rather than wood chips.

There will come the day, to be sure, when pure legs succumb to electric assist, and even now, a hand in the small of the back impelled by happy electrons is not to be scorned, but as long as walking and pushing is allowed you can hold it off for a little bit longer in spite of the temptation to flatten the hills.

“Analogue,” (as it’s apparently referred to) still carries you forward, just like time itself, heading up, down, and all around, past apple-chunking colleagues, sun-drenched horizons, fish-netted flesh merchants, spooky-looking footpaths, quickly improvised fairy rings, and heartily-welcoming watering holes.

No need to put a motor on temporal passage, not yet anyway, it’s still getting us all where we’re going right now, just in time.