Einstein once claimed that God doesn’t play dice with the universe.  Which just goes to show how even the great ones can get it wrong.  Because it seems to me that God does nothing but play dice with the universe.  Don’t bother reaching for those dice, either.  She’ll cast them on your behalf, thank you very much.

If you’re one of the fortunate few, She throws you a seven, and you’ll be rolling in some variety of clover.  If they come up two, three, or thirteen, maybe an airplane engine comes crashing through your roof in the middle of the night and crushes you in your sleep.

This is a very good thing.  I think it’s this element of chance that keeps life feeling fresh, both for human beings and for God.  You wake up each morning never really knowing if this will be the day your team wins the beer league bowling trophy, or if your groin will be savaged by a Yorkie.  For God’s part, I bet She still gets a big kick from saying “Ta Da!” for the trillionth time.  And I’m convinced that all Her best shit is improvised on the spot, too.

Nothing sucks the life out of life more than predictability.  It would be an abomination to think that our existences run to a preordained and immutable plan.  Every conversation scripted, every lottery win, pinball score and tumour foretold.  In his poem “Design,” Robert Frost wrote “What but design of darkness to appall?— / If design govern in a thing so small”.  I couldn’t agree more.

It’s not just variety that’s the spice of life, but also surprise.  True, there can be great comfort in what is safe and familiar.  But without the occasional bolt from the blue to reanimate things, rigor mortis can very quickly set in.

I like to think that even the people I know best in the world are capable of astonishing me by demonstrating some previously unknown and unsuspected quirk.  (Perhaps it would be more inspiring and flattering to greet each with “Surprised to see you!”) It’s probably best not to know about them all.  The joy of secrets and surprises has no shelf life after the big reveal.  It’s enough just to know that they’re out there.  I even like to think that I can still surprise myself once in a while.

In contrast to Albert Einstein, Forrest Gump got it right.  Life is indeed, like a box of chocolates.  True, some of them have live wasps or drops of poison concealed in their centres.  But sometimes it’s the perils that give a thing its zest.  It’s the adventure of our lives.  We are each of us, in our own unique ways, some ordinary version of Indiana Jones.  Always reaching for the jewel-encrusted skull in a world full of curses, snake pits and villains.

Or maybe we are all just agents of chance and surprise.  Weird, multifaceted, rough-edged dice being shaken up inside the cosmic cup, crashing wildly into each other as we’re tossed upon the playing surface of life.  I hope so.