Warm fuzzies

I spoke to my adoptive mother today, from Kibbutz Degania. She’s quite different from me, personality-wise: The epitome of a bleeding heart liberal, she is a firm believer in the power of love to fight terrorists, reiki as the best way to promote physical and spiritual well-being, and similar concepts not frequently espoused in my household. She herself is a numerologist.

New-age shenanigans notwithstanding, she’s very good about giving emotional advice, so during the course of our conversation, I consulted with her on how to address a friend whose boyfriend, I’m fairly certain based on the evidence, intends to break up with her instead of proposing. After relaying some of the details, she agreed that the situation did not sound promising. And then, naturally, she asked for my friend’s date of birth. Upon receiving it, she pronounced with certainty that our joint impressions were correct and that my friend should move on. Since I’d already been pretty sure of this myself and her original, logical response to my tale had supported my interpretation, I didn’t feel the need for a numerical confirmation of the fact that Steve* had been less-than-respectful to Susan*and commitment-phobic for at least two months. At best, the new-age projection was the cherry atop an already very substantial sundae (if I can be forgiven for using such a tasty metaphor in such a sad situation).

Strangely enough, it should be noted that when, a few months back, she informed me that my "time" for a productive relationship would not be ripe until the end of 2008, I felt strangely lightened and reassured. If her prediction turns out to be correct, I have no doubt that I will attribute it to coincidence or some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, as opposed to some star force resulting from my birth on December 15. After all, one of my most vivid memories relating to my adoptive mom was a "reading of my numbers" in 2003, at which time she determined that the number 9 featured very heavily in my personality and said this indicated I had “a lot of internal rage.” To which my sister responded later, “She needed the number 9 to figure that out? Really?” In this context, I started pondering why her numerical pronouncement to me was so comforting. I think it’s because it’s one more, and in this case particularly amusing, way that someone has found to say to me: “Don’t worry. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. And it’s probably not a train.”

I think the bottom line is that I am easily comforted by things of a warm and fuzzy nature, in whatever form they manifest themselves, and however unsubstantial they may be in content. And there is definitely a reassuring aspect to that, even (or perhaps especially) in the event that my adoptive mother's positive predictions don’t come true.

*Names have been changed