I was an hour into my walk when I realized that I had forgotten to get Jacqueline a present.
A warm, sunny, blue-sky afternoon, I was making my normal loop. From my apartment in the Mission, I had zigzagged across bustling Market street, through the colorful Lower Haight, and up a tree-lined hill I could have avoided but intentionally tackled for the exercise. Cars zoomed by on the busy road and bicycles swerved around me on the bike path, as I followed the towering eucalyptuses and other lush greenery of the Panhandle and continued into Golden Gate Park. Along with joggers and more bikers, people lying in the grass, I passed the Conservatory and turned into the Music Concourse—the futuristic DeYoung Museum on one side, the grass-roofed Academy of Arts and Sciences on the other—my halfway point. I then headed back toward home.
The park now behind me, my legs aching slightly and my sweaty feet eager to break free from the suffocating confines of my shoes, I pondered my quandary.
I didn’t have to take Jacqueline a present—she certainly wasn’t expecting it. I could just do what I always did when she had me over for dinner, which she did once, if not twice a month: I could take flowers or dessert. For other hosts, a bottle of wine might have been another easy option, but anything I showed up with was bound to pale in comparison to the vintages already on Jacqueline’s shelves.
So, yes, I would take flowers or dessert; but that didn’t solve my conundrum.
Today was the tenth anniversary of Jacqueline’s brother’s death. She sounded in OK spirits when we exchanged texts earlier in the day, but it only seemed right to make some sort of gesture to formally acknowledge the solemn occasion.
Unfortunately, by the time I got home from my power walk, I would only have an hour before I had to leave for Jacqueline’s. I chastised myself for not remembering the gift before I set off on my stroll.
Putting aside the question of time, I wondered where I might be able to find the right present. No sooner had I asked the question, than I had my answer: there was a shop in the Mission that was sure to have something both appropriate for the occasion and suitable to Jacqueline’s tastes.
If only going to the shop didn’t entail another forty minutes of walking.
True, I could have jumped into a ride share, but I only do that when absolutely necessary—I fear coming to rely on them anytime I need to go anywhere, like so many of my friends. Besides, although I would be cutting it close, I nevertheless could get to the shop and back to my apartment in time to leave for Jacqueline’s as planned. Apologizing to my fatigued legs and suffering feet, I picked up my pace.
Fifteen minutes later, I glanced down my block toward my apartment—but kept walking.
Turning onto Valencia, I found myself face-to-face with crowded sidewalks, reminded why I avoid not only my neighborhood’s retail corridor but its famous park on weekends. Undeterred, I threaded my way through the people window shopping and congregating and coming and going on their own errands. Momentarily subsumed in the inviting aroma of a favorite taquería, I questioned what I was doing. What if I got all the way to the store and couldn’t find anything? I didn’t have time to waste.
No, my intuition countered, the shop was exactly where I needed to go. I had nothing specific in mind, but in my gut there was no doubt: I would find what I needed at the shop. I felt it with absolute certainty.
I kept walking.
My heart beating a little faster for my effort, my lungs pumping a little harder, I wiped sweat from my brow and stepped into the store. Books, cards, and candles. Ceramics, jewelry, and imported handmade goods. Even beauty products, essential oils, and loose-leaf teas. I had come to the right place.
I perused the books, immediately drawn to a miniature collection of poetry by the renowned Persian mystic Rumi. The little book was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand. It would have been perfect, except Jacqueline already had at least one Rumi collection—I remembered seeing it on her end table. Wresting my attention away from the book, I ventured deeper into the shop.
I considered the knickknacks. I breathed in the invigorating scent of sage. I laughed at the live bee clinging to a beeswax candle as though trying to reclaim what was rightfully his.
I didn’t see anything that struck a chord.
I looked around some more, reminded of the clarity with which my intuition had guided me.
Returning to the books, again my attention was drawn to the Rumi collection, like the bee to the candle. I picked up the little book and flipped through its tiny pages. In the entire shop the book was the only thing calling to me—and its call was loud and clear. It didn’t make sense. Nor did it matter. I could not justify purchasing something Jacqueline already had. I put the book back on the shelf.
Out of time, I bought a card and rushed out the door.
🐝
Again threading my way through densely packed sidewalks, I was perplexed.
My intuition had been so strong—stronger than usual. I had gone all the way to the shop—despite my fatigue, despite running low on time, despite the fact that I could have shown up at Jacqueline’s without a gift—because I had no doubt that the shop had exactly what I needed. Never mind that it was full of so many options. How was it possible that I had come up empty-handed? I could have bought a card at plenty of places that didn’t require a lengthy, time-consuming detour.
My confusion notwithstanding, every time I went over it again—what I had felt, why I had no doubt the store was where I needed to go—I remained steadfast in my conviction: I wasn’t mistaken. What I had felt was my intuition.
But my intuition comes from a place of truth.
And I had been wrong.
🐝
I handed Jaqueline a dozen irises and the card. Hugs were exchanged, a tear or two shed, and we settled in the living room, its wall of windows opening onto verdant treetops and the subdued blue of the early evening sky. Juncos chirped and hopped around the gurgling fountain on the deck, as though wishing they could come inside and join us.
Over cheese and crackers, sipping glasses of champagne, Jacqueline and I got caught up. It wasn’t long before the conversation made its inevitable turn to our respective literary endeavors. Jacqueline had just finished something she was looking forward to sharing, and she had asked me to bring an excerpt from my own current work-in-progress. We would do readings and exchange critiques.
“Well,” she began, stopping herself. She looked down at the papers she had just retrieved from her office, red ink in white margins. Pushing her long blonde hair out of her eyes, her manicured nails flashes of crimson, she explained, “I have two quotes, and I’m still really struggling with which one to use. I have one by Rumi and—”
“I almost got you a book by Rumi today!” I blurted out. “Just a little while ago—right before I came!”
“You did?” Jacqueline laughed, “No way!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t because I knew you already had one.”
“Well, then, that’s it—that’s my answer. You just gave it to me.” She beamed, possessed of a calm knowing. “I know it shouldn’t be that hard of a decision, but I have been agonizing over it. What a relief!”
I, too, felt relief—and vindication. At the store I had found exactly what I needed after all—and what Jacqueline needed, too.
I regretted having doubted my intuition, reminded that so often we can’t possibly imagine how, when, or even if we’ll be shown that we were right to trust it.
But we always are.