Serendipity (re-dux)

Sometimes joy finds you in the least expected places.
A hallway. A headset. A nearly missed moment.
This is one of those stories.

A while back, when I was a struggling student, I had the unexpected chance to travel to Ottawa. It was a business trip with a group I worked with part-time. I wasn’t the first choice—but the first choice couldn’t go. And suddenly, there I was. I’d never been to Ottawa before, and I knew I might get a sliver of free time. I was pickled tink.

I decided right away that if I could do only one thing, it would be this: visit the National Gallery of Canada. I’d read about an exhibit of First Nations art that sounded wonderful. One piece in particular caught my imagination—an installation by Rebecca Belmore called A Gathering of People for Any Purpose.

The artist had asked women she knew to lend her their favourite chair—the one they sat in for morning coffee, afternoon tea, everyday thoughts—for the exhibit. She also asked each to record a story from her life. She attached an audio player and headset to each chair. The idea was simple and powerful: sit in a woman’s chair, and listen to her tell her story. In her own voice.

It was absolutely at the top of my list.

I checked the gallery hours, confirmed the exhibit was still on, and made my plan. After a busy morning of work and check-ins with the team, I was ready. Gallery time.

When I arrived, I hit a snag. That very day, they’d switched to shorter winter hours. The gallery was going to close in 45 minutes. Not great, but I figured I’d make it work—straight to the exhibit, no detours.

Something about me must have said “broke student,” because the ticket clerk looked at me kindly and said, “If you wait fifteen minutes, you can go in for free.”

Hmmm. Save several dollars, but lose a chunk of an already tight timeline?

“Where’s the gift shop?” I asked. I figured I could easily lose fifteen minutes in there.

Fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds later, I was back, poised at the entrance like a racehorse, ready to beeline to the exhibit.

No stops. No “Ooh, look at that.” Just straight ahead.

The room was beautiful. Simple, quiet, unusual. About ten chairs, all different, sat in a wide circle. One was a vinyl and chrome kitchen chair. One draped in fur. One was a soft easy chair, worn and inviting. The floor was a patchwork of linoleum tiles, old rugs, aged wood. The light was low but somehow intense. I stood in the doorway, awestruck.

I didn’t have time for more than one chair. The easy chair called to me. But the only other person in the room was sitting beside it, hunched over his headphones, absorbed. I didn’t want to disturb him. So—being the polite Canadian that I am—I chose a seat directly opposite. The least disruptive option.

A little disappointed, I sat and slipped on the headset.

The heartwarming story had already begun. A woman was speaking about early spring—how much it meant to her, how the hunters would return from their winter camps, her beloved grandfather among them. She described the smell of snow melting, the feel of rich earth and tender shoots. Her voice was warm and lyrical. It was a beautiful tale.

But that’s not what caught me up.

What stopped me cold was the voice itself. A voice I hadn’t heard in years. A voice from another life.

I knew that voice. I knew this woman.

She was asomeone I’d met long ago and never forgotten. We’d only crossed paths briefly, but she had left a deep, lasting impression. She lived more than a thousand miles away, deep in the northern wilderness. Circumstances pulled us apart. We’d never stayed in touch.

And now, here I was— in a gallery I almost didn’t get into, on a trip I almost didn’t get to take, in a city I’d never been to before—wrapped in her voice. Listening to her story. Sitting in her chair.

You can call it coincidence. A fluke. Happenstance.

I call it serendipity. Pure, delicious serendipity.

Goosebumps.

Do you have a story like that? A goosebump moment?
One of those “what are the odds?” stories that still makes you smile?
Leave a little rhubarb in the comments. I’d love to read it.  

Until next time.