The day I asked the universe to show me a sign, I wasn’t feeling hopeless or lost, and I didn’t stay up late at night desperate for advice—I only wanted to know I wasn’t alone.
A friend told me she heard a deep, loud voice in her right ear one morning. She said that the advice she received was specific, and the tone was too sharp not to listen. It said, “Leave him; get out.”
Another friend relayed that her deceased mother’s name appeared to her three times in one day. Her mother’s name was Isabelle, which is not too common. Through the years, I’ve heard similar stories, and upon hearing them, I’ve often felt left out and even overlooked.
In her book, Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe, Laura Lynne Jackson says if we ask for signs from the universe, they will be ours. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t forget the times I called for help and heard nothing.
I thought back on the five miscarriages I experienced, the despair I felt, and my pleas for reassurance that went unanswered. I reflected upon the last year of my 74-year-old mother’s life. Her mind had deteriorated to where she no longer knew me. And, in those disheartened moments when I pleaded for guidance—sometimes loudly—I was met with only silence.
I wrote my own story—the one that said, “No one ever shows up for me.” A narrative of self-reliance was the one I lived in until my world came crashing down. I looked inside myself to find out where I lost my way.
I saw a life deprived of inherent faith, infinite love, and one that lacked trust in what I couldn’t control. I questioned whether living without those qualities was the life I wanted and that questioning meant it was not.
My story needed to change. I decided to open myself up to the possibility of something higher or greater. Laura Lynne Jackson requested to be shown “oranges” as a sign that she was right where she belonged. I would ask the universe to show me “kiwis.” But I was specific—I didn’t want those little, fuzzy, brown-skinned fruits to appear as they would in the grocery.
I wanted to see their insides, the lime green flesh, and the black seeds. As she advised, I trusted that this would happen. I would be patient and wait.
Admittedly, I looked everywhere for kiwis, and I didn’t see them anywhere. But I hadn’t given up hope this time. I just forgot about them altogether. It was a month later when my husband handed me The Economist, a financial magazine. He’s the finance guy, and I’m the art girl—we don’t typically mix it up.
I wasn’t intrigued, but the first line of the piece said something about a man going to the store to buy kiwis. I found it peculiar the man would be buying kiwis, and not milk or eggs, which was more in line with the subject. A coincidence, I assumed, and there was no mention of green and black. I wrote it off to randomness.
The following day, I stood in line to order frozen yogurt. I heard the man in front of me ask for kiwis. I looked up, and there they were, in all their glory—vibrant green with little black seeds. Then he asked for more; a double topping of kiwis. “Only kiwis,” I heard him say. That was it. There was my sign, and the kiwis kept on showing up.
I started adding up all the kiwis I’d seen. I couldn’t help but fall into a well of my own self-importance and specialness. That was when I heard it—the loud voice in my right ear. The voice sounded much like my own, though.
I heard, “No, no, no, not special; just listening.”
I resisted the message, initially. My ego wanted to swim in the river of my uniqueness. It wanted to claim this as my new superpower. But the universe wouldn’t allow for it; neither would I. Those words became imprinted within my thoughts whenever I thought of the kiwis or saw more kiwis.
Finally, I understood. The signs have always been there, not only for me but for everyone. The stories of unworthiness we tell ourselves and our mind’s desire for notability will elude us from them.
We may miss the signs the universe sends us if we forget to listen. The universe, however, is always listening, and we are never forgotten.