Yesterday afternoon I walked to the Music Box. It was a perfect autumn afternoon. It was quite warm and all the restaurants and cafes had their tables out on the sidewalks. People were sitting outside, alone or in groups. And once again, as so often happens, it made me think about how things converge. I am walking down Southport. Right now, on my iPod, Peggy Lee is singing "Lullaby of Broadway." A man is sitting at a table on the sidewalk. He’s intently reading a book. In front of him on the table there’s a half a sandwich. Although he’s deep into his book he looks completely relaxed, completely at ease. I look past him into the cafe and see other people milling about, sitting at their own tables or saying goodbye to friends as they leave. I’m still walking and so I continue past–it’s only a glimpse. There are other people doing other things further on.

At that moment the weather was gorgeous. I walked past a certain cafe which had tables on the sidewalk. A particular man had decided earlier in the day, whether hours or days in advance or perhaps just a few moments earlier, to go to this very cafe, order a sandwich, and sit outside and read. The shuffle on my iPod had, for some reason, selected that Peggy Lee track to play. Those people inside the cafe who were saying goodbye to their friends–their meal had lasted exactly long enough for them to be leaving just as I was walking past.

Everything fits together; and even when it doesn’t fit together, it still fits together. It’s just how things are.