Do You Believe in Signs?
I flopped onto a park bench near the Water Tower to light a cigarette and curse my stupid job. I had been lugging my camera bag up and down Michigan Avenue that humid afternoon, begging strangers to let me take their picture. It wasn’t the potential sale of a quick print from a nearby photo shop I was after — I didn’t for a second think any of these lunchtime workers or shopping couples would bother to view the proofs — but I had to have two full spools of film to prove to my bankrolling boss that I was trying.
It was an idea that had promise if The Bankroller would listen to his two 25-year-old employees who were closer to his target audience than the other barflies at the Michelin-star restaurant he haunted. He envisioned the gig to work like an amusement park, where roving photographers corner guests to pose, then encourage them to buy prints later as a souvenir. The Bankroller had set up a deal with a one-hour photo hut downtown (this was clearly a million years ago when those still existed); we would give our subjects coupons with a handwritten reference for which roll would hold their shots.
Great idea, in theory. In reality, I ran into either sightseeing groups who had their own cameras, or residents going about their daily lives with no desire to document their lunch break at the riverfront McDonalds. My co-worker Jenny and I thought there could be a future for this gig during summer festivals and concerts in nearby Grant Park — if we could corral them into the photo hut as they drunkenly stumbled to the El, perhaps — but Bankroller wanted to test the process before investing in an event like the 4th of July fireworks. So I trolled the downtown streets of Chicago begging people to pose for me. Then I took smoke breaks and cursed my stupid job.
It was on such a break I had the first and loudest sign from above of my young life. It’s not that I was looking, or even believed in such things before. I wasn’t trying to hear God per se; the God I knew was a construct of the Catholic Church that confused and irritated me. But I was 25 and impressionable and looking for faith. Purpose. A path in life, direction. I loved photography, had studied it enthusiastically in college and found inspiration and satisfaction in a photo well composed. But I didn’t really know what I was going to do with it. I didn’t know what I was going to do with anything.
I sat on that bench with my Marlboro Light and a tepid Coke, and glanced over to a neatly dressed guy on his lunch break. He had a vaguely professional air: slacks, button down, hair gelled for neatness and presentation. He was deeply absorbed in “The Celestine Prophecy.”
I had just read it. It had blown my mind, as mass-market philosophical digs masked as novels often do. It had been discussed on morning shows and Oprah, it was everywhere. It was about purpose and meaning and the forces that shape our lives, and it was fueling my desire to determine what to do with my life. I can’t remember the premise, or exactly what I referenced when I started the conversation.
“Oh my god, I just finished that, it’s amazing,” I gushed. “Did you get to the part about (whatever) yet?”
He wasn’t bothered by my intrusion, perhaps also lit up by the book’s message and ready to share enlightenment with a stranger, as the author seemed to want us to do. We exchanged thoughts and reactions, now lost to time, and after what must have been his entire lunch break, meandered eventually to The Sign.
“Before you go,” I was embarrassed to ask, as I had been every moment of the job already, but I forged on. “Can I take your picture?” I explained Bankroller’s vision and ensured him that I didn’t care if he purchased or not. I just needed to click the lens open and shut with a person standing in front of me.
“No,” he gazed at me steadily. “If it was for you, for your own reasons, your own work, I’d say yes. But this? No, I’m sorry.” He left and wished me well.
I can’t say I marched off to find my boss at the fancy bar and quit on the spot, but that’s pretty close. I knew immediately I needed to end the fruitless humiliation and find something else. This job was sucking a little too much of my soul, and I was done. And I only knew this after hearing the voice of someone else reflect it back to me. I saw the sign.
I’m still looking for signs 25 years later. When I find myself at a crossroads, I start to notice things more. I randomly buy a newspaper and stumble across a feature article that introduces a business idea. I head out for a quiet walk next to the creek, trying to figure out what to do after my freelance clients all but disappeared and a lyric from Hamilton practically shouts in my ear: “Pick up a pen, start writing.”
It happened this morning. My walks by the creek are less quiet as I leash and unleash my border collie, but again I find myself trying to figure out what to do with my life. Last spring the pandemic ended the two part-time jobs that made something resembling a work life, so I gathered all that free time into writing endeavors. I posted essays online, and worked on a stage play and a TV pilot, sending both to myriad friends who gave thoughtful, expert feedback on how to improve them. I nodded with a smile and steeled myself, took notes, made plans and bought fancy software that would help format these documents into professional-looking pieces I could be proud to submit for review. What to do first?
I paused for reflection. And then I stopped everything. I didn’t hear The Sign in any of the feedback. Is this really what I am meant to do? Am I on the right path? Where does it lead? Will any of this be worth all my blood, sweat and tears? Should I bother finishing any of these projects?
I cued up the Podcast app for this morning’s walk and chose my friend Stacey’s recommended series. She had given me a list of episodes to start with, but I couldn’t remember any, so I picked one at random. It was a charming, funny story of a woman struggling to reach a major goal, battling insecurity and fear every step of the way, with a friend’s support and encouragement from her family. I heard myself in her voice, recognized her crooked path to success as similar to my own. It gave me hope that I might also conquer my fear and insecurity to achieve a challenge. It was, of course, exactly what I needed to hear today.
I realized, too, that finding these messages in the ether might not be as mystical as I once thought. Yes, there is something magical in the coincidence of meeting an insightful stranger on a bench reading the very same book that was already teaching me things. Or hearing a meaningful lyric at the exact moment I need the message. But the signs offered in these coincidences are only as impactful as my desire and readiness to receive them. I need to keep my eyes and ears open on this little patch of path I’m on now, ever sure that what’s off in the distance can’t be known until I get there.
What signs will I see and hear tomorrow?
