Serendipity

According to Murphy's law, with sufficient iterations things will screw up every possible way—and also some ways that seemed impossible. But Murphy also says that a zillion typing monkeys will produce Hamlet, however serendipitously. The key is spotting the serendipity.

This is not a small point.

Serendipity is not a great result, à la “Oh, look what happened!” Serendipity is in the noticing and valuing, and in the follow-up. You need wide-open receptivity to great results that aren't exactly what was expected. It's what pessimists call “optimism” and sane people call clarity. Serendipity is in the interpretation. The framing!

Even errors can inspire. A person who's made herself a sensitive receiver can tune serendipity from failure. This is the machinery behind the old platitude about making lemonade from lemons. It's not about blind persistence; it's about paying attention. The more attuned you are to serendipity, the more detection blurs into creation. You start getting lucky a lot.

So here's the pragmatic upshot: when catastrophe strikes, I take a beat, then flip myself into future past tense:

"Little did I know at the time that this seeming catastrophe created the conditions for something great to happen!"

I proceed straight toward that with nary a sigh. Who's got time to waste on drama? It's entirely a matter of serendipity detection/creation. When I remain wide open and deeply attuned (maybe adding eager joy to my mix, despite the recent catastrophe), serendipity starts popping up like mushrooms.

This sounds so blessedly easy! Why isn't it usually so simple? Readers hypnotized by the cartoon-like ease I've described may struggle to place their fingers on the frustrating part. Relax. Let me help you.

Here it is: None of this is available while histrionically lamenting the catastrophe.

We think we have a part to play; a dramatic obligation we've seen portrayed a thousand times in movies. Catastrophe means we grasp our head in pain and groan and furiously sweep all the papers off our desk and drink to excess and shrink into dejected shadows of our former selves. Time out for tantrums!

The lamentation trope is how we make it worse. We dump wet, gloppy cement over the scenario and patiently wait for our feet to be solidly stuck...just because it's what people do.

Calm is the prerequisite, catastrophe is the hinge.

The essential question is this: How fast can you calm the fuck down when the expected yumyum doesn't careen down the chute into your waiting maw? How soon can you pivot to the path that might later make you recall "Strangely enough, it turned out for the best!"? How much time will you waste playing the scene to its ridiculous hilt, perhaps wrecking absolutely everything just to flaunt how wrecked you felt?

Since we take our agony cues from movies, here's a classic movie moment that might de-program some unnecessary angst.



see also "Resilience Means Giving Serendipity a Chance"