Amor Fati.

It didn’t happen to you, it happened for you.

Marcus Aurelius understood that every obstacle created a new pathway, every closed door provides redirection to an open window, and every failure is a step toward success, IF we respond to it as such.

This morning, as I left for my too-long commute, the lid exploded off of my Hydroflask and dumped hot coffee all over the floorboard of my car. It was black coffee. That was a mercy. It went down into the passenger floorboard and not all over my white shirt, lap, the center console, or the two dogs riding shotgun. Another mercy. And I got a Dutch Bros peppermint breve out of the deal. Part of me thinks the dogs planned it so they could get a puppuccino, but nobody is taking responsibility.

On the way home I resisted all take-out temptation and pushed through with plans to use up the leftover soup in my refrigerator, along with a grilled cheese sandwich. The cheese was moldy. I cut it off and used the good insides anyway. I snapped one of my favorite spatulas in half in a poorly-thought-out attempt to use it as a panini press. One less utensil to cram in my jar.

Life doesn’t happen to you. It happens for you. All of the mishaps and messups push you toward the pathway you’re supposed to be on, which, as I have learned, changes often and suddenly.

This is the time of year that I traditionally entertain a certain level of seasonal depression. Or at least I call it that because it hits me with every year at this time, along with the realization that I live in a part of the universe that won’t get warm again for several months and to which the sun seems to be allergic. I cannot find happy. I know I am supposed to. ALL of the things are right in the world. My kids are good (mostly), my dogs are good (but naughty). I am gainfully employed, new house, reliable car, and I am relatively healthy for an overweight, mid-forties wannabe who refuses to work out. I have no REASON to be sad. But sadness doesn’t need a reason, sometimes it only needs space. It needs acknowledgement and then a gentle crowding out by choices to put one foot in front of the other and show up for The Things that are expected. Or maybe in some cases, choosing not to meet those expectations, but setting new ones that take you down a different path. As long as you’re taking steps.

Loving fate doesn’t mean that dumping your coffee doesn’t suck or that sadness will never need space. Loving fate means that you know the sadness gives more meaning to the eventual happiness that WILL return at some point. Loving fate means seeing that Dutch Bros opportunity in the coffee catastrophe. It means recognizing the mercies.

Fate is a funny thing. It’s the best reminder that there are very few things in this life that we control. It’s also a good reminder that that lack of control is probably for the best. Sometimes fate knows better than we do. Humans make stupid choices. Like eating chocolate when you KNOW it’s gonna cause a major breakout, or slurping boiling gravy off the spoon to taste when there’s no doubt it’s gonna burn the shit out of your mouth, or staying invested in something for too long because of sunk costs. Fate knows better.

Fate sent me the wrong backpack. I ordered a green one, but the company accidentally sent me a black one. They sent the green one to replace it, so today I had both packs to compare. And I couldn’t decide which one I liked better and I had a full existential meltdown because I felt like I had no one to ask for advice. But then I realized that some decisions, like backpack aesthetics, are best determined independently, and that it’s ok if I feel like no one cares which backpack I choose. I struggle hard with the fate of aloneness some times. It’s a fate I have a difficult time loving. But it’s a good exercise for me to trust the pathway that fate has thrust me toward. It’s good practice in relinquishing my delusions of control in the big things and enjoying the small powers I have, like choosing the backpack that fate sent me instead of the one I thought I wanted. Maybe that’s an analogy for something.