A Letter from Fate:

Rachel Schmidt

Good.... well. I was going to say evening. But I know not all of you are basked in eternal twilight like I, so good whatever-time-of-day-it-is-for-you.

It’s no accident that this found its way to you. And I know this letter is probably longer than you expected. I would apologize, but I think you’ll agree that your time is better spent with me at this moment.

If you don’t, you will soon.

I want you to know that I think of you. Often. This tightrope of life you walk across is fashioned by hands outside your control, but so tenderly made with the filaments of your own brain and spirit that it’s as if it was made by you. Let’s be clear: I am not God. I am merely the overseer of billions of life roads and although you may think you’re swerving blind, seconds away from a cosmic DUI, I assure you that you’re doing very well.

An anecdote: sometimes I take human form on the weekends. I like to go to a little coffee shop in Ventura called Palermo. The baristas have my order memorized but still don’t know my name. I like to sit at a particular metal table under the shade of the stone awning and look out at downtown. At all you beautiful souls moving through air, through time. People are very similar no matter where you go. Everyone just trying to drive a little steadier, make their headlights a little brighter. (Though I am aware some believe driving steadier means ramming their car into others to forge a straight path.)

I spoke to my coworker Muse the other day and she told me about the beauty of art. It’s not something I’ve thought much about, regrettably. I always considered art to be an accent, an embellishment, a glance-over. But I saw lots of art with Muse the other day, and although I had to withstand her constant brags about how she was the inspiration behind every stroke and letter, I came to a realization. Do you humans use art to embroider your lives? To make them a little more homey? More inviting? Because I do that with events. I’ll order the events given to me by hands greater than mine and make them brighten the tapestry of your existence. Weave their threads into the rope, the stones into the asphalt. Your first birthday. First car. First kiss. The time you spent three months in Italy when every day was so much like heaven you cried. That moment you sat in a tree with nine of your closest friends and laughed and laughed until your gut ached. It seems that your sculpting, singing, writing, website-building, photo-taking, etc etc, has the same joyous effect that rises in my heart when I see someone thrive in an event I took such delicate care to place.

I never considered myself an artist, but I think I’d like to call myself one now.

I understand you may have questions for me. I encourage you not to ask them. But know that I love you. I care about you. Start your windshield wipers, place your feet a little tighter on that rope, and remember that you all are so close in the fabric of existence. Be kind to your fellows. And your not-fellows. Be kind.

Go and paint my art projects to be the sweetest versions of themselves.