It’s a message from the universe, people say, when something unexpected, fantastical, or insistent happens. Several individuals, who don’t know one another, make the same atypical observation to you over a handful of days. A hummingbird creates a nest right outside your window, lays her eggs, raises her young, and flies away, the entire cycle revealed as it unfolds. An old friend, who you haven’t thought of in years, pops into your head. Then calls moments later.
Whether these communications come from God, the cosmos, or are entirely unconnected to anything larger, they present the opportunity to ask: is there something that needs my attention, or intention? One doesn’t need to be a mystic to believe examining such a query to be worthwhile.
In its most recent communique to which I’m aware the universe first started speaking to me through Brad, a college friend whom I hadn’t seen in ages. I bumped into him at a monthly senior lunch I go to with my 92-year-old dad. As we walked into the church auditorium where the luncheon was being held, there was Brad, sitting at a table. We gave each other man hugs – meaning not actual hugs, but gentle pats, like we were burping a baby – remarked at the coincidence of running into one another after so many years and fell into topical conversation.
“AI,” said Brad, “It’s coming on like a tsunami! I’m encouraging everyone to grab their surfboards and learn how to surf.”
I saw my dad looking for a table, told Brad how great it was to see him and excused myself to follow my father.
The universe’s messages cascaded from there, a tsunami of dispatches. In less than a two-week period I published a column announcing my soon-retirement from the View; heard news that several prominent Potrero Hill residents were going through difficult health challenges; learned that a brother-in-law may have a particularly dangerous form of cancer; and accompanied a nephew to Kaiser’s emergency room, waiting six hours for him to be released around midnight after receiving a hydration IV and medications to quell food poisoning. Another old friend, whom I hadn’t seen in years, arrived from the Midwest for an unexpected visit, carrying stories of the deep upheaval with which her family was grappling.
The universe’s loudest knock was a relative’s suicide, which had been telegraphed to me in a more human form when roughly a month prior, after a mildly cranky email exchange, she’d closed by telling me not to worry, she wouldn’t be bothering me again.
The idea of the universe sending messages is viewed skeptically by the nonspiritual. The concept isn’t too remote from a God directly answering an individual’s prayers, prompting the question: really, there’s an all-powerful entity that pays careful attention to and specifically responds to each human? Who or what is sending these communications? Are they trustworthy? How do I know they’re for me? Will AI eventually hack them for commercial reasons?
For the analytically inclined the concept of “listening to the universe” might be comparable to what political scientists call a “policy window” or an entrepreneur a “window of opportunity;” a transient period during which conditions synergistically align to grab attention and make things happen. Through a confluence of events, circumstances, or perhaps a consciousness that arises from within, the universe provides an opening to carefully consider a new path or possibility. This might happen all the time; we just don’t notice. It’s also plausible that the universe’s message is delivered exactly when we need it; or that the “universe” is composed of each of us, individually cultivating greater awareness, connecting to the wider world, invisible or not.
My favorite Hindu deity is Kali, the goddess of time, change, destruction, power, and freedom. I like her fierceness, inevitability, and capacity to usher in necessary transformation. Kali’s messages can be scary, conveyed through abrupt life stumbles, breakups, and closures, a kind of stinging cleansing that violently clears away obstacles to growth.
Sickness, death, the past reemerging in the form of old friends bearing present distress or warnings about the future. And that hummingbird nest? It was outside my window. The universe was virtually shouting what amounted to a ham-fisted message: a period of life is ending, creating the opportunity for something else to hatch.
This wasn’t exactly news to me; perhaps “the universe” was just a bad week. Still, the volume was hard to ignore. I started paying more attention. To my dad across the table, still finding his seat after ninety-two years of locating a place for himself. To Brad’s tsunami warning, which I’d waved off but not forgotten. To the email that ended with a sentence that should’ve prompted me to call instead of deleting it without much thought.
The hummingbird didn’t leave instructions. She compiled twigs into a tight container, raised her two chicks, and flew away. The nest stayed where she’d left it. I can see it while I write this, empty, the tiny family replaced by cloudy mold, like a small mouth open, waiting to be fed.
