A few words on coincidence, kismet, synchronicity – those curious little breadcrumbs some higher intelligence seemingly sprinkles throughout our lives in hopes, I suppose, of leading us to a greater truth.
Mostly because I’ve experienced both, I’ve come to suspect there are two forms of these little miracles: one is of the painful variety, the other participatory. We start with the former, which leads to the latter.
In both cases, God or the universe or whatever (I’ll call it God because it’s faster to type), is doing what it must to get our attention. In the case of suffering, we’ve ignored the gentle whisperings, the subtle coaxing, and so a bit of suffering must ensue. (Let’s face it, the only time the ego train ever really stops is when it gets derailed by illness or something else is on the tracks – something that forces us to pay attention.)
We may think life is going our way – the money is rolling in, the family is healthy and seemingly happy, but curiously, we keep getting these strange illnesses, or some bizarre new fear or panic arises, or our marriage feels empty, or there’s this nagging sense that we’re living a lie. The point being, the suffering ratchets up until it’s inescapable.
The participatory variety of synchronicity, on the other hand, usually starts when we’ve had enough of this suffering – had enough of OUR version of life – and at last are ready to at least consider we may not have all the answers, may not actually be in control after all. We may do this through surrender or self-inquiry, but either way, God is meeting us half way. The more we surrender/pay attention, the more these little signs seem to materialize.
An analogy. We have a large, playful retriever. At night when we let him out to do his business, he takes it upon himself – regardless of how inclement the weather – to sniff out every square inch of the yard. Every. Night.
Try as we might to herd him back to the door, he zigs when we zag and zags when we zig. Invariably, we end up laughing because, like a recalcitrant child, he never wants to call it a night.
Some nights, however, it’s too cold or wet or whatever and eventually he gets a very strong verbal warning and, if that fails to do the trick, a gentle whack to his hindquarters. At which point, he knows he’s screwed around long enough, the gods are tired of waiting for his attention, and he needs to start moving in the right direction.
Sounds vaguely human, yes? We get lost in this world of our inherited/invented imaginations, lost in our senses, get caught up in the food and drink and drama, the sex and money and position, the endless stories of a wonderful/aggrieved me, until at last God gives us a swift kick to the caboose in the form of something – anything – that will get our attention.
Except that few of us actually pay much attention. Instead, we overcome or move past or heal from the suffering. We take back the reins, resume our own myopic little path, until the next bout of pain arrives.
Ever been on a plane you thought might crash? You find all kinds of people making all kinds of fervent pledges to a God they’ve rarely given much thought to. If only He/She/It will let them kiss sweet mother earth again! Within minutes of landing, of course, they’re right back to their old ways.
Years ago I attended a conference in New York City. There I met an attractive, vivacious young woman who, as a local, promised to introduce me to the ‘real’ parts of the city. Well, this reporter’s brain found the night beyond fascinating and, over time, I knew where things were headed.
At some point in the wee hours of the morning, I found myself alone in the bathroom of an Irish pub, the young woman waiting at the bar to take me home. I pulled from my wallet a photograph of my six-month-old daughter. Big toothless smile, seated on a tiny chair, toy blocks scattered about her feet. I began to weep – for such innocence to be assigned a parent like me. Oh woe is that child, yes, but oh woe is me as well.
And then I wiped away the tears and spent the night with that young woman. The photo of my beloved infant daughter was not enough. I zigged while God zagged.
It would be many more years of this kind of thing, of the suffering being ratcheted up and up and up still more, until at last it all came crashing down and I became so fully sick of myself – literally and figuratively – that I was ready to kill that me, to put an end to its pathetic narrative.
It wasn’t clear at the time, of course, what was happening. There were no thoughts of synchronicities or God’s guidance. Only that this ME thing was utterly done with itself.
That’s when the synchronicities began in earnest (or were at least acknowledged for what they were).
More to come….
