It’s the third Thursday so I’m at the Morada Way Art Walk. Normally, my truck only goes to Key West but this is something I saw as I was leaving my first ever trip to The Keys and I scribbled it on my mental notepad in case I ever got back. And I did, and so I go — every chance I get.

Islamorada is an artsy island and I’ve had some great things happen when I’m around fellow artists. I’m sipping on a Death By Mermaid snifter because it’s 9.8% ABV and because I’ve got to work in the morning. I didn’t even leave my tab open — too much temptation. I’m thinking I should go home, but instead of turning right towards my car, I turn left out of the beer garden and deeper into the Art Walk. I’m not sure why since it’s counterintuitive to the conversation I just had with myself as the beer warmed itself through my veins. I reach the end booth of bracelets with shells and bright colors. I have no extra money for such extras and I decide to just be honest about that. I don’t want her to think I don’t like her work.

We talk about the pandemic and the pathetic way the government is helping us. I “ooh and ahh” over her creations showing themselves off on the black velvet between us as well as the description of her creative process. I like talking to artists — we get each other. My mind doesn’t go in a linear, efficient manner; it’s more like fireworks and silly string shooting off.

There’s an older woman working the booth with her and she starts looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Waaait . . . were you here two years ago?” as her gaze intensifies.

“No, no . . .” I start with my usual defensive response when people think I look familiar. It’s usually not me. Because I’m passing through without enough time to become familiar and because it’s an ease of connection that we sometimes mistake for familiarity. I have that ease. But in this case, I pause. She might be right — I do the math.

Vic and I were workamping at the state park further down The Keys two years ago, and we did come here. And then all the pieces start to fall into place and my mind plays the memory of a night that turned suddenly stormy as we shopped and we took refuge under a tent. I look up and around. This tent.

Her eyes light up and the other lady catches up and jumps in, “You left your bracelets behind!”

I watch in amazement as she digs a little plastic bag with bracelets of jingle bells out of her canvas bag and passes them over to me proudly. “We were just talking about you the other day . . wondering if we’d ever see you again!”

I am stunned. They’ve been carrying these cheap little strings of holiday-only beads around for two years just in case we meet again. I feel that warm feeling of love and magic tingling in my center and lighting up my mind.

And all I can do is stammer. “How . . . but . . . ” and. . . Why?

“You’ve even changed your hair color,” the younger one references me, pointing and reading my mind, but quickly turns to the other lady for confirmation.

“Yeees. You were blonde before.” She nods, looking at my red hair and making no indication of which she prefers.

“And I have a mask on now!” Finally finding words to match my eyes frozen wide in an incredulous stare.

They both nod at this, almost with the excitement of children who got even the extra credit question right on the exam.

“But you are tall. We remembered that,” she looks me up and down in emphasis.

We reminisce about how that storm whipped up and started blowing everything around. How they invited us in and still we got soaked. And it must’ve been all the excitement that made me leave them behind while I tried on her designs. I don’t care about the bracelets. I’ve since replaced them and forgotten all about these lost ones. I don’t even remember if I did buy something from her or not, or what it was.

This connection is my currency. For some people its money, possessions or prestige or maybe their kids being on honor roll that defines them — bears witness to their purpose and subsequent success in it. Not me. For me, it’s about clicking with life and people and moments like this. Those are my riches; and I’ve been so fortunate to have amassed tons of treasures like this. ‘Checkpoints’ a guru of mine once called them.

As we groove on this divine happenstance I find myself feeling renewed. Energized. And then, inevitably, inspired. “I think I’m going to have to write a story about this.”

“Oooo, you’re a writer?!” the younger one, the booth owner exclaims, “I’ve been wanting to hire a writer to write my blog. I don’t know how much you charge . . . ”

I say nothing into this gap, because I don’t know either.

She carries on, “I hate writing,” she actually makes a face, according to the scrunching up of her mask. “I’m an accountant — give me numbers any day!”

And just like that a friendship is born, a new direction in the journey opens, an alliance is made, faith in the Universe is strengthened. I loosen the reins a little more through the now humorous thought that I could be in control; could arrange such an amazing win-win scenario. I just turned left instead of right because of a little tug in my gut.

‘God gives me better than I would’ve thought to ask for and before I would’ve thought to ask.’ Jed McKenna and Spiritual Enlightenment The Damnedest Thing proves true once again.