At 3AM I am woken by the singularly exasperating chirp of a dying smoke detector. It is a well-known but little-publicized fact that smoke detectors are programmed to wait until 3AM on that night you’ve been hoping to catch up on sleep before starting their death rattle, a precise sequence of incrementally more frequent bleeps. My impulse is to rip the thing from the ceiling, sever the wires, and smash the lot to bits with a hammer, as I did once—to no avail—in my college dorm room after the teakettle spontaneously combusted. Fortunately the love of my life (henceforth, LL) intervenes. After some fumbling about we are able to simply replace the battery.
Sleep is slow to return. My mind wanders to another inconvenience a few days prior. At the time I’d wanted to write about it but hadn’t. The smoke detector incident takes me back there.
At this point a warning is necessary.
WARNING: The following entry is about feelings.
It is Wednesday evening. LL and I are visiting a dear friend, an artist who in this lifetime has been touched by grace as well as sorrow. I met her after she had experienced the worst loss possible, that of a child. Having myself lost a sibling, we bonded almost instantly. Shortly thereafter, by her account, nine or so other people appeared in her life who shared with me the number 28, whether a birthday, anniversary, or other significant event. One of these friends had bought for her "The Idiot’s Guide to Numerology," and I pick it up now.
Mathematics, the science of numbers, fascinates me. Whether it is the Fibonacci sequence in the spiral of a sunflower or the repeating fractal designs at different scales of a coastline or the unflappability of pi, I’ve always been intrigued when numbers objectively illuminate a pattern. Numerology, the study of numbers’ occult meanings and their supposed influence on our lives, is different. Like astrology and the automobile, numerology elicits in me a delight wrapped up in disbelief: that is to say, I do not understand it.
This is the opposite of what I let on. As our artist friend talks about the "28-ers" in her life, I smile self-importantly at LL. I pat The Idiot’s Guide as if those of us associated with a 28 are part of a secret club that she can never be a part of, a club fully explained by this book, for those who need such explanation. I intend it all in good fun.
But as I touched on in my first blog, even good intentions can do harm when carried out without thought. And anything that highlights difference or separation cannot help invite comparison and judgment. X is better than Y. I am better than you. You are better than me.
We say goodnight to our friend. As LL and I talk on the way home, this is the first time I realize I've hurt her feelings. With my affected pomp and command of numerology, she felt bad, and now I feel bad for causing this. It is not easy to explore these feelings. It is so much easier to gloss over them. What an inconvenient truth that I am human, a sentient being, able to cause another pain and feel pain myself. But what profound gratitude seeps into my core as I realize that here is a fellow human willing to process through this discomfort with me! I begin to glimpse the meaning of those bumper stickers that say, "Peace in the world begins with peace in the home which begins with peace in the heart." Unlike the insane chirping of the dying smoke detector, this particular inconvenience becomes an opportunity for self-reflection.
Incidentally, the numbers in 10/3/2009 add up to 15, 1 + 5 = 6, and 6 "represents malfunctioning home appliances, overcast skies, and mindfulness."
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