C'est la vie
In a novel or film or New Age book, being blocked in one area of life invariably turns out to be because the Powers That Be are redirecting one to something else. Did I need to be kept in Ipswich this weekend so that I could find that million-pound winning Lottery ticket, bump into my future husband, or save the house from burning down? Apparently not. I did some rather humdrum things round town, went to the pub, and attended a nice druid gathering one afternoon, but nothing crucial or life-changing happened to me in Ipswich last weekend.
Storytellers and spiritual gurus invariably want life to make sense, want things to happen for some higher purpose that is salient to an unfolding plot. I don't wish to suggest that life is completely meaningless, but one can but feel that more often than not things happen in this world (or fail to happen) for no particular reason ~ random, meaningless, and largely pointless events go on. If we scrape any good out of them, it's probably a sheer fluke.
Arguably the popularity of fiction is that it imposes sense and order on the imaginary worlds contained within, which gives the hope that our own lives might unfold in a way that makes sense too.