The Wind Chime Wasn’t My First Choice (But Neither Was Starting Over)

There’s a sound that sends a chill up my spine every single time I hear it. It’s not a banshee’s wail or a door creaking open in the dead of night (though, fair warning, both are valid options around here). No, it’s the clinking of agate slices strung together in a rainbow-colored monstrosity of a wind chime that hangs on my front porch like an accidental omen.

I didn’t pick it. Not really.

Oh, I bought it, sure. But it wasn’t the one I wanted. Much like this so-called “fresh start” in the middle of nowhere Ontario, the wind chime was what was available, affordable, and—perhaps most importantly—what the universe seemed determined to shove in my face until I accepted it.

Because here’s the thing about starting over: nobody ever talks about how ugly it can be.

Everyone’s all “new beginnings!” and “follow your dreams!” as if reinvention is some kind of curated Instagram carousel with soft lighting and homemade sourdough. No one posts a filtered photo of you ugly crying into a duct-taped moving box while your daughter texts you passive-aggressive real estate links and your grandson asks if ghosts can follow people across provincial lines.

(They can, by the way.)

So yeah. The wind chime wasn’t my first choice. But neither was this whole new life. And yet, both seem to be working out in their own chaotic, slightly cursed way.

The Wind Chime I Actually Wanted

Let me be clear: I had a vision. A copper-and-crystal vision with just enough mystical flair to scream “I have my life together” without shouting “I bought this on Etsy while drunk.” It had weight. It had style. It matched the Pinterest board I made back when I thought “restarting your life” meant opening a charming metaphysical boutique with community support and decent plumbing.

That wind chime was everything this one is not.

The one I ended up with? Rainbow agate slices. On a fishing line. It looks like someone tried to interpret chakra alignment with a glue gun and a craft fair hangover.

Nate, of course, raised one eyebrow and said, “You’re really gonna pay $300 for a jingly booby trap?” when I showed him the one I wanted.

But the rainbow chime? It was cheap. Slightly tangled. Sitting alone on a clearance shelf like a rejected prop from a New Age clown funeral. Naturally, it called to me.

And by “called,” I mean it fell off the hook and hit me on the shoulder. Literally. That should have been a sign. But I’m the kind of person who reads signs after the chaos, like footnotes from the universe.

The Unexpected Geography of Starting Over

People think we moved to BriarVeil because we were chasing some whimsical dream—maybe a spiritual calling, maybe maple syrup-induced madness. What we were really chasing was escape.

From grief. From burnout. From the existential horror of suburban Facebook groups arguing over whether crows are a nuisance or an omen.

We found a listing for a slightly run-down two-story building at the edge of a village that doesn’t appear on most maps and said, “Sure. Why not. Worst-case scenario, it’s haunted and the plumbing explodes.” (Both have since happened.)

Starting over wasn’t a hopeful leap. It was a stumble. The kind where you’re too tired to get back up, so you just lie on the ground for a while and wonder if maybe the moss is comfy.

I wasn’t chasing a dream—I was trying not to drown. And the house, the store, the family crammed into spare rooms and half-finished renovations? That was the lifeboat. Dripping, dented, and patched with duct tape. But floating.

Why the Wrong Thing Still Works

Let me tell you a secret: the wind chime works. Not in the aesthetic sense, obviously. It clashes with literally everything and has the acoustics of a panicked squirrel orchestra. But it works in a deeper way. It knows things.

I started noticing it in the first few weeks. Every time something went sideways—a delivery delay, a storm rolling in, a surprise health inspection—the chime would rattle like it was trying to warn me.

Once, it went off at 2:13 a.m., for no apparent reason. I grumbled my way to the window to yell at it and caught sight of a customer-shaped shadow casing the building across the street. Turned out he’d been shoplifting from the village co-op for months. The chime knew. Somehow, it always does.

When Nova nearly drank an unlabelled jar of elderflower tincture (or, as she called it, “fairy juice”), the chime rang so violently it knocked itself halfway off the hook.

It even sounded the morning I found out the basement toilet had become inexplicably possessed. But that’s a story for another day—and possibly an exorcism blog.

What I’m saying is: maybe it doesn’t matter that it’s ugly. Maybe it matters that it tells the truth.

The same could be said about my new life. I didn’t get the one I wanted. But I got the one that showed up, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “You’ll figure it out. Probably.”

Reinvention Isn’t Glamorous. It’s Gritty.

Here’s the lie people sell you: that starting over is empowering. That it feels bold and clean and freeing.

But real reinvention? It’s messy. It’s crying in the bathtub while trying to decode whether you’re following your intuition or just deeply dehydrated. It’s wondering if you made a huge mistake, and then deciding it doesn’t matter because the mistake is already unpacking boxes in your spare room and asking about dinner.

Reinvention is when your plan A burns down, plan B ghosts you, and plan C turns out to be… this. A weird, wonderful mess of mismatched furniture, strange new friends, and a chime that seems to whisper, brace yourself every time it moves.

And yeah, sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I miss what we had before. But sometimes I catch a glimpse of Nate in the café, covered in flour and humming an off-key sea shanty, and I realize we’re not just surviving. We’re building something. Even if it’s one chaotic, slightly scorched brick at a time.

The Chime Rings Again

As I’m writing this, the wind chime just went off.

There’s no wind. No one on the porch. Just the clear, eerie sound of agate-on-agate, ringing out like a warning bell.

I pause. I sip my coffee. I check to make sure Nova hasn’t summoned anything from the basement (again). All clear—for now.

But the chime never lies. Something’s coming. Maybe just another leaky ceiling. Maybe another fork in the road.

Either way, I’ll deal with it.

Because the truth is, I’ve stopped waiting for things to be perfect. Perfect was never real. But this? This is mine. This weird, windy, ghost-prone life where nothing goes to plan but everything somehow still fits—this is the one I’ve got.

And you know what?

It’s kind of beautiful.

In that “haunted antique shop with surprise snacks and accidental wisdom” kind of way.

So no, the wind chime wasn’t my first choice.

But neither was starting over.

And both turned out to be exactly what I needed.

💜 Everlie

P.S. If you enjoyed this little descent into my chaotic origin story, you’re going to love what’s coming.
My first book—“Backcountry Mystic: The First (and Slightly Smoky) Chapter”—launches May 26. It’s got everything: disaster magic, spiritual detours, suspicious goats (don’t ask), and the deeply relatable urge to burn it all down and start over with caffeine and questionable decisions.

Want early access, behind-the-scenes gossip, and free metaphysical mayhem?
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