Till death do us part — 2 — small chances, big changes
October 10th, 2006Life looks like the course of a marble on a sloping nail board: the trajectory is generally straight, as the marble follows the slope, until it hits a nail. Then it bounces to the right or to the left, depending on exactly how it hit. Such repeated bifurcations can significantly alter the course of the marble, and tiny deviations in the initial trajectory and bounce conditions can result in considerable changes further down the board. I am no fatalist and thus I believe that sometimes we marbles can choose to deflect our path ever so slightly that we can, with a helping nudge from a few well-positioned nails, steer our life upon some semi-deliberate course amidst the roaring reefs of uncertainty. This story is about one such choice that has changed my life … forever.
The end of a summer camp
We had been hiking for seven straight days and seventy miles, across the magnificent (but hilly) landscape of Lozere in the south of France. Forty seventeen-year-olds on a summer-camp, breaking camp in the morning, setting up camp in the evening, singing around a campfire munching lumps of overcooked macaroni at night, a grunge version of our glorious boy-scout ancestors, except that half of us were not boys. Time was slowly pushing everyone towards the end of the summer-camp, the end of the summer season, and the end of the summer-camp years, for everyone would soon be heading towards various universities, engineering schools, jobs, etc. Somehow, I had reasons to be glad that it would soon be over, the main one being that I was beginning to wonder why on Earth I had started dating that girl three days before. Two words: green eyes — and ? And nothing else, really. People say love makes you blind. Whence I conclude that I was certainly not in love, for if I had been blind, I would not have fallen for just green eyes.
A couple of days later — and a couple of leagues downhill — another little woman seemed to appear out of nowhere. I mean, she was on the summer-camp, but to me she was among the anonymous half, people whose first names I would know, whom I would smile to and have conversations with, but whom I had classified as belonging to the static backdrop, who would not make it into the next scene, like in old Disney cartoons. And yet suddenly here she was, intermittent at first, then steadily gaining reality, until overwhelmingly present. I was fascinated by how she could look plain an instant, and gorgeous the next if I looked more carefully. And I was taken aback by how I could have overlooked her all these days. She was so unlike all the other girls and their girly things and their girlish looks and their girlful everything else.
Then, on the eve of the last day, she came to ask me if we could talk. And we spent almost the full night talking.
Back home, then what ?
The next day, as the train drew nearer the end of an era, I was confusingly realising that now had come one of these crossroads in life, where you get to pick your path. I knew only her first name. Although I could get her full name and address from probably ten people on the camp, I did not know what lay ahead at that time, therefore I could not shed my shyness about making public enquiries. I managed to get a discreet glimpse of her suitcase tag, and memorized her full name until I could scribble it down.
The next morning, I mustered all my courage to write a long letter which I hoped would convey the unequivocal message that we should meet again, whatever our future destinations. I had found only one address with her name in the phone directory, in a nearby neighborhood. I had this vague feeling that there was a one-in-two chances I would be sending a love letter to a total stranger — as a matter of fact, the very same thing had happened to me a year before.
The very next day, as I am shopping with a friend in a supermarket I seldom go to, someone tiptoeing between two lines of cereal shelves catches up with me from behind and covers my eyes with both hands: ‘guess who’. Here she was, and I knew there was only one-in-four chances that she might have read my letter: 50% chance that the address was the right one, times 50% that it had been delivered that morning. She was smiling a lot, but would could tell ? We talked trifles for a short minute, then went back to our respective businesses.
We have 500 pages of love letters sent back and forth over the following two years when I was away studying that can bear witness to the intensity of this fabulous adventure. Five years later, we got married. Thirteen years later, we welcomed our firt-born. Last week, we celebrated our tenth anniversary.
What-ifs
The endless list of statistically significant what-ifs sends shudders up my spine when I start thinking about them:
- What if either I or she had not gone to this camp ? I know I had hesitated a lot.
- What if I had not seen her during the camp ? If those green eyes had averted my sight for two or three more days ?
- What if she had not had the courage to come to me and talk ? I was probably not the only shy one there.
- What if I had not picked her name from her suitcase ? Or had it misspelled ?
- What if the address had been the wrong one ?
- What if we had not met by chance in this supermarket ? Did this coincidence influence us into believing it was a sign ?
One thing I know, if I had to do it again, I would make sure to leave as few details as I could to chance. Above all, I would have told her I loved her, instead of writing, even if it meant blushing, sweating, stuttering, and feeling miserable if I was rejected: I would not want to miss this bifurcation for all the gold in the world.
Read on
Read on
Till death do us part — 1 — the first decade of forever
Till death do us part — 2 — small chances, big changes
Till death do us part — 3 — on fidelity and other trifles
Till death do us part — 4 — Honey, we have to talk
Till death do us part — 5 — a love-letter blog ?
Lovely story, Mandarine. What if, indeed? But does that make you feel that the hand of destiny exists? Or more sure than ever that we create our own fate?
I knew if I waited a few days, instead of constantly checking, I’d finally get the next installment, sort of like waiting for the right person to come along. What a great story. I’m convinced “Mr. or Ms. Right” is almost always someone with whom we never are trying too hard (I love your description of her belonging to the “static backdrop”) and with whom we never do have to try too hard.
Litlove: although it means more responsibility, I believe there is no such thing as destiny. There are a lot of choices where you do not have one, really (personal history, background, etc.), but in that particular case, I believe it was entirely up to me (well, in fact, us) to choose.
Emily: do you know there are nice little software elves called feedreaders, who do the job of regularly checking for you ? Once you have found math, finding software should be the easy part ! (sorry, just kidding). Thanks for the compliment, and thanks for having pushed this installment up my priority list: it felt so good writing it !
I too so enjoyed this post — I liked hearing about the what if — the role chance and self -determination play in choosing a mate. (Oh, and I’m with Emily, I have no idea how to use a feedreader. I like clicking on my links and being surprised. But that’s probably just an excuse to avoid figuring something else out.)
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