Do you believe in signs?
I do.
The other morning, when it was twenty-eight degrees in Pennsylvania (far too cold for anything red and spotted with wings to be crawling around) I found a ladybug on my windowsill. On its back, wriggling. I righted it gently with my fingertip, and it paused for a moment as if to say thank you, then meandered on my desk and disappeared.
A ladybug in February felt like a cosmic telegram. At the time, I was planning a book tour, toggling between cash flow and Airbnbs, wondering if I could justify a little Southern sunshine as a business expense. I had my eye on a lake house, all soft greens and blush pinks…exactly how I’d decorate if someone handed me a blank check and a new home. But this dreamy dreamy lake house was only available sooner rather than later (and I’d wanted to go later – there are finishing touches to Sorry Bob! that I’ve been procrastinating on). But I wasn’t sure: was I meant to go now, or should I give it a few more weeks so I didn’t rush through the 2,747 edit of Sorry Bob!
What are you trying to tell me ladybug? I looked it up: a ladybug symbolizes protection, good luck, and is often associated with the Virgin Mary.
Though I was raised Catholic, I’m more spiritual than I am religious but I’ve always loved the Virgin Mary
Ok, but what was the ladybug telling me? It seemed to say GO! But…I started overthinking it. Because sometimes a sign is more about the feeling it gives you…
Years ago (before anyone became divided over politics, that’s how long ago it was!), I dated a man we’ll just call G. He was charming and disastrous in equal measure. He gave romantic gifts (that I ended up tossing out moving car windows when I finding out he had cheated again) but not out of the goodness of his heart. But! I was convinced that if I loved him enough, I could fix him, that love alone could outwit addiction and ego and all the worst parts of someone pretending to be better.
One day, we were at a horse race. The least-favored horse bore his sister’s name, which was also his mother’s. “If that horse wins,” he said, “it’s a sign we should get married.”
You can guess how that went.
The horse won.
And my stomach dropped straight through the grandstand. I realized (perhaps for the first time) that sometimes the sign isn’t the event you witness, but the feeling that floods your body when it happens. His sign said marriage. Mine said run!
Back to present day (if you’re still reading, thank you, I appreciate your patience) …another sign arrived not long ago, and it had to do with moving…though, as always, I’ll take the scenic route to explain.
When you reach a certain age, you start thinking about where to spend the next chapter of your life. My husband wanted Montana: big skies, quiet mountains, a place where you could feel small in the best possible way. I, on the other hand, hate the cold. I’ve never understood the cult of “crisp air.” I’m the person sitting in a sweatshirt in the sun when it’s seventy degrees.
I tell people getting married…talk about weather preference before you say “I do.” Love may conquer many things, but frostbite is not one of them!
But life, with its dark sense of humor, threw a wrench into our moving ideas.
My husband got cancer.
Like so many men, he didn’t want to tell anyone until the procedures were nearly over… that quiet, stoic pride that pretends it’s protection. The medication stripped his testosterone down to nothing, and for the first time in our marriage I watched this strong, self-sufficient man become emotional. Tender. Not broken, just unguarded.
Then, one winter morning, he shivered as we stepped outside and said, “I finally get it. No more Montana.”
Florida was too crowded and hot for him, but South Carolina and Tennessee rose to the top of the list. And driving to Wegmans a few days before I was scheduled to visit family in Florida, a car with South Carolina plates pulled in front of us!
“See?” I said. “A sign.”
When we got home, I pulled out my Spartina 449 clutch that I’d purchased (because it had a map of the islands in South Carolina). I’d never even used it. I flipped over the label and stared in disbelief. The code number on it combined digits from my Social Security number and my husband’s old police badge! C’mon now! Even he raised an eyebrow at the coincidence.
THEN, a few days later, in the Allentown-Bethlehem Airport (the second best airport in the world – Nashville being the first), another sign was waiting for me. Her name was Amy.
ABE airport has this sweet little free library at the gates. I was admiring the shelves when I met Amy: fabulous purple jacket, Pilates instructor, and volunteer philosopher. She told me she’d lived everywhere: Montana (her husband adored it for the hiking), Idaho (which, she said, has “Idaho nice” people.
Wouldn’t you know it, Montana and Idaho were the two places my husband had wanted to move prior to his health challenges!
But Amy (who has lived in the Allentown area for a long time) said she loved South Carolina! If she could pick anywhere, that’s where she’d live (she had no idea it was on my list!)
Naturally. Another sign.
We stood there chatting until her flight boarded. Amy was strong, graceful, the kind of woman who looks ten years younger because she spends her energy in all the right places.
I do believe the universe conspires to help us.
But sometimes, we think we know better. Sometimes, we overthink. Sometimes, the sign says: how would you actually feel if you got what you wanted?
So what was the ladybug telling me?
Maybe the ladybug wasn’t sending me a destination; maybe just a message: You’re still protected. You’re still guided.
So wherever I land, whether it’s in the Carolinas or just in this moment, I’ll take it. Because sometimes protection doesn’t mean staying safe — it means finding the courage to go.
One thing I do know is, I’ll be trying Pilates! Thanks Amy!
