Scott Free...the right glove of the Father: Black...Whole

One of the things I want to track with this blog is the play of coincidence, large and small. Here is a funny small one: Last weekend, I manged to fulfill my yearly ritual of losing one of my winter gloves. I keep them stuffed in the pockets of my winter jacket, overflowing precariously, and inevitably one falls out at some point. Luckily this year it happened at the tipping point into spring. I did all the requisite footwork of backtracking through my weekend and inquiring into all of the safe places it could've landed, but I had no luck, no glove. Then, at the end of the day Monday, as I was walking to my car from work, just after my cold right hand made the thought of my recent loss flash into my consciousness, I noticed a haggard looking glove sticking straight out of a chain link fence. I went closer, and was surprised to see that it was a right handed glove of the exact same make as the one I'd just lost, a Scott mitten. It had been wedged in between the post and the beginning of the fence, and it took considerable yanking to pry it loose. The only difference between this glove and the one I lost was that this glove was XL instead of L. So one way I interpreted this cute little whisper from the universe was that my right hand O' the father power which has always been more problematic for me was healing and expanding to the degree that I am going to need more space for it. My second thought was to send out a beam of gratitude and healing to my frustrated soul glove partner who wedged the glove into that fence. I imagine them losing their left glove and giving up hope after a desperate search for it's lost partner. I see them in a fit of indignant frustration wedging the lonely suicidal right one into a permanent grief filled salute to it's absent better half. I love imagining it this way, the poetic unity of a deathly gesture of protest against the meaningless cruelty of a hopelessly unpaired universe leading mysteriously, circuitously, to a happy rebirth ending. One glove abandoned in sorrow and doubt, being transformed through happy accident and magical re purposing into a faith (and hand) warming emblem of grace for me. This little glimpse into the sweet interconnected singularity at the center of everything, the story of this black glove whole, gave me just the boost I needed to snap me out of my winter post-divorce doldrums. UPDATE: Writing this inspired me to give that glove a wash last night and it was, to quote a favorite line from a Peter Mulvey song Thirty "as dirty as a mitten in a winter street"! By the sheer volume of street that leeched from it, I think the more likely story is that someone lost that glove and it got tromped through the street slush for a bit until a psychic passerby picked it up and put it in that prominent place hoping to facilitate a tearful reunion with it's owner. But then I came by and did a little shamanic slight of hand to pad and warm my own sad story! If that is the real story, I can only hope for an even exchange where some other anonymous matchmaker finds my glove and runs it up some flagpole where it is sighted with joy and surprise by the forlorn owner of my pilfered mitten. Then on some dark icy future day we'll run into each other in some cosmic parking lot and notice we are a mirror image of lopsided Scott gloves. Then I hope we can forgive each other and exchange our lost fostered gloves for a better fit.