“When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.”

~Maria, The Sound of Music

At the end of August, a Facebook TimeHop post from three years ago popped into my NewsFeed: a picture of my right foot in a walking boot with the caption, “My rockin’ new style for the next few weeks.” I was struck by two things: an amazement that the event that so drastically changed my life was three whole years ago, and a snarky observation that I was so optimistic then, not yet knowing the hell this injury would put me through.

I had partially torn my Achilles by running for my train to work one day and stepped off the sidewalk wrong. It was supposed to heal on its own, but didn’t, so three months later, I underwent surgery. After months of rest, rehab, and lots of pain, my Achilles was fine, but the half-year of immobility had rendered the rest of my foot incredibly weak and unstable. Thus began the still-continuing saga of consecutive foot injuries from virtual non-events, which rendered me unable to commute through the city to work—unable to do much of anything, really.

I was already aware of one major positive life-change that resulted from this dark time: the realization that I was spending my best creative energies working at a paycheck job (though still a really good job; I had a wonderful experience at the United Nations) and not much was left for pursuing my own goals. Time was passing me by, with nothing to show for it. This led to a series of very heartfelt talks with my fiancé, now husband, about how he spent years working towards where he wanted to get professionally; now it was my turn. We discussed, budgeted, worked out the details, and we are in the remarkable position where I am able to take a real shot at this “writing full time” thing. I feel incredibly blessed to have such a supportive partner by my side.

The other fortuitous circumstance came to light only recently. Because I was basically a shut-in in my apartment for a year, the woman who had recently moved below our unit (from elsewhere in the building) became a significant problem, since she was a heavy indoor smoker. It was an old building and smoke seeped directly into our unit; she could have been in the room with us. I get incredibly sick—bedridden—from smoke inhalation, and this was a truly heinous period of which I won’t go into great detail. Suffice it to say that we eventually found moving out to be in our best interest.

It was difficult to leave. We loved our (other) neighbors, the building, the location. Moving is a trial even in the best of times, and we hadn’t planned on doing so until we could buy a house. That was (and still is) a considerable way off. The building itself was beautiful, even if it was old and not properly cared for or updated (tripped breakers were a frequent complaint). So, not the best of circumstances.

I didn’t find out until several weeks after the fact, but on July 25, everything changed. A fire ripped through that building, speculative wiring problem, but (at the time of various articles) the cause was still being investigated. The unit that first caught fire was the unit below our (former) direct neighbor’s and travelled up through the top floor. So many people lost so many things, people I know, people whom I’ve never met but relished listening to their beautiful piano playing through the thin walls (specifically, Terrence Wilson, apparently a Grammy-nominated classical pianist who lived upstairs. Learned all that from this article, but I spent many nights thrilling in his playing of Mozart’s “Rondo Alla Turca“, my favorite classical piece. I never got up the nerve to knock on his door and say hi, though). So many artistic and eclectic people lived here, and it hurts my heart to think that their entire lives are changed, their precious mementos lost, their instruments destroyed. No one was hurt, and that’s incredibly fortunate, but—aside from loss of life—this is one of my worst nightmares. Coming home and finding everything gone. Pictures, letters, things that are absolutely irreplaceable, gone up in smoke.

So now, nearly two years after The Great Move, I’m feeling incredibly blessed and fortunate that we were no longer living there. It doesn’t exonerate the past or the people involved, it’s not “fate” or “karmic retribution”  or anything because that would indict all of the innocent people who were affected in this tragedy, but it’s a silver lining to a dark period in my life, one that I wasn’t expecting. I drive by the still-standing-but-boarded-up building now and say a silent prayer for all those affected, but at the same time say another one of thanks to whatever circumstances led to us not being there for this.

It’s funny how life works, and that’s the main point I want to drive home here. No matter what your situation, no matter what badness befalls you today, you never, ever know where it may lead you tomorrow. That’s what the quote that began this post is all about: regardless of your religious beliefs, you never know what the future holds for you beyond the current closed door. Somewhere an opportunity is awaiting. You may never be fully aware of the threads that connect throughout your life, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not living the positive result of a series of chance and choices. It’s a good lesson to remember.

For any who may wish to help out the former residents of 192 Claremont Ave., there are several funding campaigns running here and here.