From Random House Webster's Unabridged Dictionary:
Kismet (kis´met, -met, kis´-), n, fate; destiny. Also, kismat (kiz´mət, kis´-), [1840-50; Turk, Pers qismat, Ar qismah division, portion, lot, fate, akin to qasama to divide].
Kismet, as a word, has existed since the mid-19th century; I suspect kismet as a concept has existed much longer than that.Fate. Destiny. Lot. Portion. A belief that coincidence and random exist only in that they fulfill a fated outcome. My novel is built on this premise, perhaps because I believe in the concept, having experienced a number of events I initially perceived as unfair, or tragic, that later proved to be, as Oprah might describe, "aha moments", or, as I refer to them: the slap-upside-the-head I needed to redirect my focus, and realign my life-trajectory in keeping with my purpose, and core-values.
I won't wax-long on the events that nudged—and in some cases head-butted—me in a different direction than I thought I wanted, or believed was the logical, loved-one-approved course; suffice it to say some of them hurt. A lot. Others were less immediate and injurious, external issues and internal inconsistencies too-long ignored, that eventually rose up to slap me down. And from the ground, you have a great, all-encompassing view of what's important—if you roll on your back, and look up.That is the theme in my novel, Everything That Matters…love, born out of tragedy…because sometimes what at first blush appears a tragic happenstance, leads to something wonderful; a life reimagined, and better than might have been experienced had the tragedy not occurred.
Here is a moment when the heroine in my novel is offered a different perspective to her belief that she is a victim of circumstance:
Excerpt, Everything That Matters, copyrighted material...
Father Ramirez patted Dianna's hand, beamed up at her. "I'm glad he brought you here," he said.
Father Ramirez glanced skyward. Dianna arched her eyebrows, looked around the compound. Compared to her arrival, it was a portrait in serenity.
Chickens clucked as they clawed and pecked at the hard-packed earth, geese honked softly as they waddled to and fro like long-necked Centurions, their black beady eyes alert for intruders; the sow dozed in a hollow dug from the earth alongside the Hacienda, seemingly unfazed by the squirming pink mass of piglets crowded between her fore and hind legs.
Mr. Douglas emerged from a low-roofed barn leading Sonny, Mateo behind him with the saddled roan; a pair of small dogs, one white and one brindled, trotted behind them. The door of the Hacienda opened, and Luisa came out to stand in the shade of the porch, Lazaro hooked on one round hip. The rest of the children loitered near the gate, presumably waiting to say goodbye. Dianna looked back at the tiny cleric.
"You think God brought me here?" she asked.
She shook her head. "I am here," she said, "because of choices other people made." She looked at Mr. Douglas.
"There is always choice, hija," Father Ramirez said quietly. "Even if alternatives are painful or unsavory, they are within your power to choose."
She frowned, her gaze on Mr. Douglas.
Had she chosen him?
Kismet or coincidence? I know what I believe; what do you?
Please share in the comments.
It is often hard to distinguish between the hard knocks in life and those of opportunity. ~Frederick Phillips