I came across a poem, "Probability," by Lisa Purpura in the January 19, 2015 issue of The New Yorker while reading in bed before I went to sleep.
I read it four times that night. More, since.
I like it a lot. Not because I understand exactly what Purpura is trying to say. That's not how poetry works. Rather, it made me feel something about myself, and life, that rang true.
Something about how I place myself at The Center of Reality, viewing events from this oh-so-privileged perspective.
The never-ending series of causes and effects that is this world comes my way, offering up something that makes me go Wow! This happened to ME!
But really, I suspect, it was just a happening. Wasn't about me. Or anyone, really. Just a happening. But I need to see it as "wild and rare."
Because, as Purpura says, "what if it wasn't?" This would displace my specialness, leaving me as simply me, not ME!
Here's the poem.
Most coincidents are not
miraculous, but way more
common than we think—
it’s the shiver
of noticing being
central in a sequence
that makes so much
seem wild and rare—
because what if it wasn’t?
without your consent.