One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization.
During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering.
The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art.
Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me.
A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter.
With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels with their thumbs while standing in line for tacos, this felt delightfully rebellious.
Curiosity got the better of me.
"What do you use the typewriter for?" I asked.
She smiled the smile of someone who's answered this question a hundred times before.
"Give me a word," she said. "Any word, or a phrase. I'll write a poem just for you.”
Now that's not an offer one gets every day.
Without giving it much thought, I answered with the first word that came to mind.
“Serendipity."
It seemed appropriate. After all, this blog is called On the Fly, and stumbling upon a sidewalk poet armed with 80-year-old technology felt as serendipitous as life gets.
She rolled in a fresh sheet of paper and began.
There was no Googling for inspiration. No AI. No delete key. No carefully curated playlist designed to maximize creativity. Just the steady percussion of metal keys striking paper, each sentence arriving with enough confidence that it seemed no one intended to take it back.
For a few minutes, the Annex disappeared. People wandered past, conversations drifted by, coffee steamed, and the little typewriter kept tapping out something entirely original.
A few minutes later she handed me this.
serendipity
just like that, at the right place, right time,
the stars align, and the pieces fall into place
with the grace of god or god knows what.
without effort, without strain,
without wax nor wane,
we meet in the middle
somewhere between fate and destiny.
a last minute decision that has you
turning left when you had planned
to turn right led you right smack
in the face of what you'd otherwise
never seen.
there are some insights we can't glean
a glimmer of sense in but trust all the same.
without effort, without strain,
without wax nor wane,
we meet in the middle
somewhere between
where I end and you begin.
if you're looking for it,
serendipity will evade
your searching steps
and avoided your grasping
breath, teasing
it's best to blindly march on.
— britt warner
The more I read Britt's poem, the more I think she captures serendipity's paradox: you can't schedule it.
No one ever writes in their planner, 5:30 p.m. — Unexpected Moment of Wonder.
It simply arrives while you're on your way to something else.
One line especially stayed with me:
"Turning left when you had planned to turn right…"
That's exactly what happened to us.
If we'd taken a different path through the Annex, we'd have missed the conversation, the poem, and the reminder that meaningful encounters rarely send calendar invitations.
I also love how Britt repeats the refrain, "without effort, without strain…”
The first time, it points toward the vastness of fate and destiny. The second time, it narrows beautifully to "where I end, and you begin.”
It's a lovely shift—from the cosmic to the deeply personal—and perhaps that's where serendipity truly lives: in those fleeting moments when complete strangers briefly intersect and leave each other a little richer.
Thank you, Britt Warner, for an unexpected gift on an ordinary Tucson afternoon.
If you find yourself wandering through the Annex and happen to hear the unmistakable clatter of typewriter keys, don't keep walking. Stop. Say hello. Give her a word.
You never know what might come back.
As for me, it's a gentle reminder that life remains full of places to go.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. See you next time.
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