These Things Happen...Conclusion

There’s another type of synchronicity whose impact is accentuated by not only being extraordinarily improbable but possessing a quality of strangeness that can alter one’s entire worldview. Experiences of this kind have led many people, myself included, to believe that the phenomenon demonstrates unequivocally that there is some sort of “organizing principle”—an integral feature of the universe—demonstrating explicitly that everything is interconnected. Whether or not such events (or our lives) ultimately have meaning or purpose, something is at work and that “something” is not random.

The following story recounts a very unlikely meeting. Most people, at some time in their life, have a comparable experience. This is a shining example of such an event.

In August, 2013, I took time off from my job in the White Mountains (where I’m the cook, maintenance man, and den mother at Crooked Creek Station, a University of California-owned research facility located at over a little over 10,000 feet in this high desert mountain range east of the Sierra Nevada). There was a rare week-long break with no users so this offered an opportunity to visit my ailing mother down in Ventura. She has numerous health problems and is no longer able to walk so needs continual assistance. My brother, who cares for her full time, was stretched thin. The  chief purpose of the visit was to give Steve a slight break. Dylan lives at Crooked Creek with me during my work season and she came too. We did the long drive in one push: down the mountain over miles of rough dirt road followed by the sweltering stretch down Owens Valley and through the Mojave Desert, finally reaching Ventura shortly before sunset.

I had told Steve not to expect us in time for dinner but we ended up arriving earlier than expected so opted to eat at our favorite Thai restaurant. We were seated in a booth near the entrance. I was facing the doorway. It was flanked by big windows and curtains had already been drawn against the low sun but a narrow gap let blinding light through and it shone right in my face. By shifting in my seat I could get the harsh light out of my eyes but glare was unavoidable. A woman in the booth behind us was clearly a non-stop loud talker with an insufferable voice. This unfortunate combination led me to hail a passing waitress and ask for a different booth. She led us to a much quieter spot in the rear where we sat in road-weary silence, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our meals. Seated directly behind me were two women having a sedate conversation.

Our meals finally came and we got down to business. But after only a few bites of my curry, out of the generalized chaos of restaurant sounds, four words seemed to materialize out of a silence. Instantly my attention was riveted. I glanced at Dylan; her eyes were wide (she’d heard the words, too). Half turning in my seat, I could just see over the top of our booth. I said, “Umm…excuse me. Did I just hear one of you say ‘White Mountain Research Station’?” Our neighbors, two middle-aged women, looked at one another and spontaneously began to laugh—a reaction to realizing, instantly, that four total strangers were about to have a very interesting exchange.

The younger of the woman, facing me across their table, replied, “Uhh…yyyes. I did. Why do you ask?”

“Well…I…work there.” More laughter from them. My heart was pounding. “Can I ask what your connection is with the research station? Oh, excuse me—I’m Tim. And this is my wife, Dylan. We’ve actually just driven from the Whites…left there this morning, in fact. We came down to visit my family. I grew up in Ventura.”

“This is amazing! Hi, hi! I’m Stephanie—so glad to meet you both!—and this is my friend, Barbara. I was just telling her about a trip I’m going on this coming weekend. Have you ever heard of Clem Nelson? He was a well-known geologist who did a lot of work in that area.”

“Of course! But, sorry to say, I never got to meet him; he died a few months after I’d started working at the research station. Everyone says he was a wonderful man.” (Clem Nelson was a beloved geologist, paleontologist, and geology professor at UCLA.)

Stephanie went on, “He was a wonderful man. Hey, we’ve just finished eating. Do you mind if we come over and sit with you?” Dylan pushed her plate across and moved to my side while the two women sat down opposite us. Stephanie continued her story: “My husband and I are driving up there this weekend—we’re leaving tomorrow evening—to climb a mountain. Have you by any chance heard of ‘Clem Nelson Peak’?”

I paused for dramatic effect. “Uhh…not only have I heard of Clem Nelson Peak, but I’ve been up it twice. And the second time I was with one of the people responsible for getting it officially named after Clem. Do you know who Allen Glazner is?”

“Oh, sure! He was one of Clem’s grad students.”

“Yes…well, he and his partner, Drew Coleman, were staying at Crooked Creek (that’s where I work) and wanted to visit the peak. They hadn’t been up there since it was officially named.”

“Wow. This is really amazing! A group of us—all students of Clem’s—are going to climb his peak in honor of him. He was a great man. In fact, my husband, Mike—he’s a geologist, I’m not—we met in 1973 on one of Clem’s field trips. When I told Clem we’d gotten married he said, ‘Well, you can’t blame me for it!’ and he laughed. He was so funny! Have you ever noticed the memorial plaque for him at the Bishop station?”

“Yeah, sure.” (At the White Mountain Research Station headquarters in Bishop, on the porch of the main building there’s a wooden bench with a brass placard reading, “CLEM NELSON  1918–2004,” and underneath that, “Holy mackerel! We’ll miss you!” I’d wondered what the reference was.)

“Well, do you know what the ‘holy mackerel’ refers to? No? Well, it’s from the punch line of his favorite joke. It’s kind of off-color, but…do you want to hear it?” Of course we did. So Stephanie told us the longish joke-story and I won’t even attempt to summarize the thing but it concerned George Custer (of Little Big Horn fame) and his last words. The punch line was, “Holy mackerel! Look at all those f---king Indians!”

Of course, we were all staggered by having met under such circumstances. There was the additional element of unlikelihood courtesy of my having asked to be moved to a different booth and the chance of its being right next to theirs. (Had there been a separation of just one booth we almost certainly wouldn’t have overheard Stephanie’s soft voice over the general noise.) Our meeting would have been remarkable enough without the added feature of a nondescript, virtually unknown little bump of a mountain and its role in our connection. It was awkward saying goodbye and watching Stephanie and her friend walk away. She didn’t even turn and smile at the door. There had been no trading of phone numbers or email addresses; I believe we each realized this was a unique meeting. And that there was no reason to debase our singular encounter with the triviality of that tiresome social convention: the exchange of contact information between people who have no intention of ever seeing one another again.

Just two weeks later a friend from Santa Cruz came up to the Whites for a visit and the three of us walked up Clem Nelson Peak. Formerly nameless, it was marked on the topographic map simply as a survey point with an elevation of 11,373 feet. Though only a mile from the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Visitor Center (which all the tourists visit) there’s really no reason anyone would bother going there. Its spectacular view of the Sierra Nevada eastern front is essentially the same as the one to be had at the signed viewpoint just down the road. Strictly speaking, the obscure little mountain is more of a large hill, with higher points nearby, and is visited by a handful of peak baggers (mountain climbers who obsessively “collect” peaks) and a few dedicated local explorers.

A small rock cairn marked the flat summit of Clem Nelson Peak with a little register to sign (the likes of which are to be found on most mountains, regardless of popularity). Checking this summit register was the reason we were there. This one, typical of seldom-climbed mountains, consisted of a cheap pocket notebook in a glass jar hidden under a few rocks beside the cairn. It actually held a surprising number of entries, most of them being people who’d come up expressly to honor Clem following the naming. Students and family members had written brief but moving testimonials for a man who clearly lived on in many people’s hearts. And there, signed in with the others in the last dated entry: “Stephanie  Tiffany—Ventura.”

I’ve written a number of accounts of synchronous events and have formed an impression—which may be completely unwarranted—that these kinds of things befall me more often than they do others and have actually compiled a list of specific instances. From what I’ve read, those who report an unusual number of synchronous events in their lives tend to be naturally observant. And they are people who see themselves living in a world filled with meaning. They also tend toward the superstitious or number among those drawn to new-age spiritualism. They are credulous as opposed to skeptical.

I would describe myself as a seemingly incompatible mingling of these character traits: a natural-born skeptic and questioner-of-all-things, essentially of a scientific bent but also with an affinity for the mystical side of nature. Which is to say, I acknowledge a hidden side to reality, inaccessible to scientific exploration, and believe that our world, to paraphrase an old Christian maxim, moves in mysterious ways. Regarding almost all these concerns I remain agnostic. The conclusions I’ve reached are grounded in personal experience and observation, with a careful weighing of evidence with the aim of approaching a truth that is assumed to be beyond human capacity to fully grasp (one of the few things I am certain of). I find mysterious things utterly compelling. Looking into such matters, for me, is an aesthetic—pleasurable to the point that it could be called a form of titillation. And that admission might reveal more about me than I realize.

            I’ve read any number of articles and several rather unsatisfying books about synchronicity. None offered any compelling explanations. Even Jüng’s famous monograph was a distinct letdown. For me, the entire subject has retained an aura of mystery and I have long since given up hope of receiving any concrete, rational answers.

Nevertheless, the occasional synchronistic experience lends a sense of reassurance that there is an interconnectedness that’s a attribute of the universe. This one conviction is shared by all those who believe in synchronicity. One can grant the phenomenon credence without attributing deep meaning to individual incidents, without a powerful conviction that something may be a “sign” or confirmation or harbinger-of-whatever. For myself, if the observable facts have anything one could call  “meaning,” it’s the same as all the other hints the natural world provides us—clues that allow one to attempt to apprehend the character of reality. I’m convinced that, whatever its meaning (or lack thereof), synchronicity is real…a genuine “thing.” And to be clear: the entire matter’s importance lies in its being a graphic demonstration of the true nature of nature—a form of creative intelligence…a self-organizing agency that is inventive, delicately balanced, and inscrutable.

Finally, there’s one aspect of this whole subject that seems to have been largely ignored. That remains unacknowledged. Which is this: for every synchrony we experience there may be dozens, scores, many, that we simply miss or never notice. One last story:

During my ranger phase, each summer I’d run into several different school groups on Outward Bound-style backpack trips. One such group, from a Bay Area high school, had an exceptional outdoor education program. These trips can be life-changing experiences for teenagers; I always enjoyed running into this bunch on the trail and hearing their stories. There were two trip leaders—one male one female, mid-20s—both glowingly healthy and good-looking to the point of being virtual parodies of hyper-fit, gorgeous young white people. I’d have lengthy and enjoyable conversations with them. Early on, I learned that a woman named Arlene was originator and head of the program and had formerly led many of the trips herself. From what I heard she sounded quite impressive. I would never see the trip leaders again but I’d ask them to greet Arlene for me and tell her that I hoped we’d meet some day. As time went by, whenever I’d run into one of these groups the leaders would inform me that Arlene had said they’d likely meet the ranger and to pass on a hello. The two of us had a sort of vicarious friendship.

            During the summer of 1999, Arlene accompanied one of these two-week outings but I missed seeing them. However, they did run into another of our rangers (whose bailiwick was a few canyons over from me). Colin was a tall, handsome, charismatic man in his fifties and their chance meeting in the wilderness resulted in he and Arlene having a romantic liaison. And it was through this channel that I finally got to meet Arlene one early autumn morning. I was staying at a Forest Service bunkhouse on days off. She had come over for the weekend to see Colin and the two stopped by to say hello. Arlene was much as I’d imagined her: petite, fit, attractive…a strong-willed powerhouse pushing sixty (though she looked a full decade younger). We finally got to have that nice, long chat after years of having looked forward to meeting one another.

            At the time, I was in a relationship with a woman whose work required her to shuttle between Phoenix and the Bay Area. For a time, Kristi was renting a little guesthouse in the little Marin County town of San Anselmo. Her brother, Steven, lived with his wife Sandra just a few miles away. That November I visited Kristi and the two of us would often have dinner at their place. Sandra was a very talented pianist and one evening she mentioned going to a piano recital in San Francisco in a few days; a pianist of international renown was performing at the venerable Herbst Theater in the city. (I’d never heard of the place.) Sandra asked if I’d like to come with her. Well…that’s a yes!

            The recital had already sold out so I was ticket-less but, when we arrived, city-wise Sandra promptly located someone on the sidewalk outside the theater who had one to sell. So I made it through the door but, unfortunately, my seat was far in the rear. However, Sandra came and collected me at intermission; someone hadn’t shown up (there was an empty seat right near her—third row center) so for the recital’s second half I had a great view of the stage.

            After two encores and a lengthy ovation, the lights came up and the audience stood to go. People down front were milling about, talking, waiting for the aisles to clear. Sandra was chatting with friends so I stood there gaping at the opulence of this cathedral-like edifice, in that semi-exalted state that comes with hearing music in such a place. And then, a woman who’d been seated in the row in front of me, just a few seats down, turned toward me.

Our eyes met. It was Arlene.

            Naturally, we were…flabbersmacked! Dumbgasted, gobfounded! Reflexively, we introduced one another to our companions and made some painfully inane small-talk. Then we all left. And I never saw Arlene again. But thanks to having met only a few months prior, we’d recognized one another.

The thing I took away from this chance meeting was the realization that we—all of us—cross paths with people with whom we share deep connections…and never know. We have near-encounters with potential lovers, dear friends, or collaborators—sometimes in highly unlikely places—but these crucial meetings don’t quite take place. Or we’ve spoken to one another on the phone or texted but haven’t seen the other’s face. The connection falls short of manifesting. These non-happenings don’t occur all around us, constantly.

In each person’s life: how many times does one sit in a room with another person, a stranger—someone with whom they share deep ties but simply never end up talking to? Or maybe the two did talk, maybe at length, but never made that crucial connection. Without a doubt, each of us have been acquainted with any number of individuals (in many cases, no doubt, having known them for ages) without ever discovering that we were related somehow—maybe even by blood—or have mutual friends in common. All that’s needed would be that chance reference, a slight bend in a wandering conversation. None of us will ever know how many times we’ve failed to spot or barely missed running into that person we were fondly remembering just minutes before.

Here’s a gloomy thought: How many lonely people miss meeting their one true love, their best friend by mere seconds or a few yards? Perhaps the two pass one another on a busy street but some momentary distraction thwarts a meeting of eyes. So they didn’t feel the powerful, beguiling spark that, unaccountably, would have stopped them in their tracks, leading to a struck up conversation that could have really got going over a cup of coffee. And that wonderful talk in the coffee shop coffee would have led to a date that changed two lives. The net result could have been a happy marriage of fifty-two years and the birth of amazing children and grandchildren.

Such things must happen—or rather, they don’t happen—constantly. We’ll never know either way. But this has to be true. What might it mean that we live in a world whose lines of connection are far more entangled than we can even imagine them to be? The idea casts a long shadow. Many would say it’s best not to think about such things. I’m reminded of that childhood game I played, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with mom’s hand mirror beside my face…holding it just so and suddenly seeing an apparently endless series of reflections of my own face, endlessly regressing into a sort of tunnel—something I would later know to name infinity. I didn’t play that “game” very often because it was somehow deeply disturbing. But every so often I’d do it, feeling an impulse to revisit a mysterious and frightening place that held some deep and compelling meaning.

  

    ©2017 by Tim Forsell                       draft                         2 May 2017          

These Things Happen...Part II

Another kind of synchronicity includes related events that take place over time, in stages as it were. Again, the events may have significance only to the person(s) involved; whatever they consist of might seem inconsequential and trivial or even silly to others. Such is most definitely the case with this fundamentally ridiculous story.

Phase One: For the better part of a month I’d been camping at the hot springs in Saline Valley. In those years I spent much of each winter at this remote oasis near Death Valley, a place that provides the basic needs of an itinerant community of nomadic types—like unemployed rangers—during the non-summer months. It was New Years Eve day, 1994.  I’d thoroughly enjoyed my previous Saline New Years celebrations (which might involve well over a hundred people) but this year the group of friends I’d been camping with wanted to avoid the crowds that come just for the festivities. They decided to leave the valley and I elected to follow them out, resupply in town, and then head back to the springs for more. Some other folks who wanted to skip the revelry as well decided do the same and we invited them to join us in a convoy to make sure everyone made it safely over the snow-covered pass. We all made it over the icy pass but, due to our late start, ended up making camp nearby on a Joshua tree-covered plain.

It was not only cold—the “camp” was a wide pullout at 6000 feet elevation—but very windy so we parked our rigs in a tight circle. There was a fire ring so I built a little fire (we had some wood with us) and had our own improvised celebration. A dozen souls gamely huddled around the struggling fire, everyone wearing heavy coats and warm hats. There were several drums, one saxophone and—yes—alcohol was consumed. Despite the harsh conditions we actually created a rather festive, celebratory ambiance. The drumming and wild wind lent our impromptu celebration a sort of pagan lunacy…a wintry madness. Somebody had firecrackers and set a few off.

Then I did a thing that seemed innocent enough at the time but which, nonetheless, resulted in the birth of a minor legend. In Saline Valley, where people are often known only by first names, the long-time visitors end up with epithets bestowed on them by others. I was “Ranger Tim” to most folks but, for some time after this episode, a few people took to calling me “Mad Bomber.” (This included some who were not among the few eye-witnesses who returned to the springs afterward.)

Once the fire was laid, I attempted to get the wood to catch but my disposable Bic ran out of fuel. Somebody handed me another lighter and without thinking I slipped the empty one into a pocket.

After the firecrackers, I was apparently feeling a little of the pagan zaniness and did something that, in retrospect, was downright foolhardy. I found the dead Bic in my coat pocket and, without deliberation, flipped it into the fire. This was a total whim intended, I suppose, to “spice things up.” Having performed this experiment on a previous occasion (to see what would happen) I knew that the lighter wouldn’t explode in a ball of flame, spewing molten plastic and shrapnel. All of us were huddled close to the fire. I made some show of tossing the thing into the pit but not everyone saw this—including, ahem, a mother holding her infant. Those that did, however, scattered.

Part of this deal was that I felt lucky right at that moment so I  didn’t even bother to move away, knowing I was safe from harm. I realize this doesn’t make much sense but this is a “thing” with me: an feeling of complete immunity from disaster at very specific times…a certainty that I can pull something off and have nothing to fear. (This non-rational sensation was a consequence of years of solo rock-climbing—an activity that relies in part on an intuitive certitude as regards positive outcomes, e.g., not falling and dying.) My companions, however, weren’t aware that they were perfectly safe.

As designated fire-tender I was seated right next to the flames in a low-slung folding camp chair. The fire-pit was surrounded by piled stones. Some seconds after my impetuous act, there was a POP! (not even close to being as loud as the firecrackers) and a shower of glowing coals. The lighter flew out of the pit, landing a few yards away. I hadn’t moved a muscle and no hot coals landed in my lap. No one was burned, no hair was singed. Some people “got” the weird devil-may-care humor of it and laughed—no harm done!—but a few thought I’d been stupid and reckless. The woman with the infant, who I hardly knew, was genuinely incensed. It wasn’t until later that I found out just how incensed. I heard about it from others and ended up apologizing to the mother, who took the opportunity to give me a real dressing-down. But the story got spread far and wide and gathered some momentum, no doubt getting embellished along the way. In part, it was intended as a rebuke for my having done something that people thought so out of character for a ranger. Others, those who knew me, felt I’d been irresponsible and could easily have injured someone. But I should point out that at the remote desert outpost of Saline Valley hot springs there’s a sort of loose-knit transient community. And within every small community—always—there is ceaseless, unfiltered gossiping.

For a couple of years I’d occasionally be ribbed about that night. Some of it was good-humored mockery though a few acquaintances would call me “Mad Bomber” just to provoke me. Others (including the mother, of course) kept my censure alive.

Phase Two: Several years later, once more in Saline Valley at the hotsprings. New Years eve again, as well, with friends around a cheery fire in my camp after a lovely dinner. Libations and laughter. My pal Gabriel’s mother, Ariella, took the opportunity to recall that semi-infamous event’s anniversary. She had done this on other occasions. So people who hadn’t even been there got to hear (again) about the ball of fire, the blazing coals winging through the air, the molten projectile that whizzed past someone’s ear. (For a few, this was a first telling.) In the past, close friends had kidded me but apparently there were some who still believed that I’d heedlessly endangered innocent people and they still carried some residual indignation. And maybe this was justified.

Still, being reminded of the affair most definitely annoyed me. But: it just so happened that I had in my possession a spent Bic disposable lighter that had run out of gas the day before and was right there in my trash bag. To finally lay this matter to rest, I went and fished the thing out and carried it over to the fire. After a brief preliminary statement I tossed it into the coals. Everybody quickly backed off but I stood directly in front of the fire, three yards from the flames. Some people actually crouched behind cars or bushes. There was a fair amount of anticipation in the air. After several long seconds there was an insipid little pop! and a few small coals fell onto the surrounding sand. There was some disappointment-tinged laughter at the manifest anticlimax and folks ambled back to the campfire while I just stood there, stunned. Because:

In the darkness, beyond the circle of fire-light, no one had seen what happened (me included). But that lighter had sailed out of the firepit, hitting me in the chest. In fact, it struck directly over my heart. There was no pain, none, but I’d just taken a straight shot to the heart. I plucked the slightly melted lighter out of the sand at my feet and began babbling, holding it up to show everyone. No one seemed particularly impressed or even interested. But I sure thought it was, well…something. And still do.

Phase Three: November 2015. Back in Saline Valley for the first time in several years, specifically to attend the wedding of my friends Gabriel and Loretta.

The evening before the ceremony: a big dinner in their camp attended by at least thirty people, most of whom I’d never met. Dylan and I are fairly antisocial, especially when it comes to mingling with groups of virtual strangers. So we skipped the dinner but ambled over later to at least make a polite appearance. (Our hosts had plenty on their plates so we hadn’t expected to spend much time with them on this trip.) It was breezy on top of the autumn chill and Dylan ended up sitting in front of one crowded campfire. I wandered around and chatted with some old acquaintances.

Gabriel had been brand-new to “desert camping” when he first started coming to Saline in the late 90s but has since become expert when it comes to the many subtle details involved with camping out in the desert—camping with small children, in particular. Saline Valley can quickly turn vicious when the wind blows or if it rains. (On rare occasions it even snows). This year he’d brought a new and practical item: the interior works of an old washing machine—the critical “tub” part that spins during the spin cycle. Its purpose was to serve as a “fire-pan,” something you can build a small campfire in to keep the fire “contained” without having to build a fire-ring out of stones. (Now that Saline Valley is part of Death Valley National Park, the Park Service has outlawed the building of fire-rings.) This wasn’t the first time I’d seen one of these; they’re lined with drain-holes that let out some light and they radiate heat—good in the wind.

I was becoming chilled so joined a couple of folks around the washing machine tub fire. One of them was Gabriel’s mom, Ariella—the woman fond of teasing me about the lighter debacle. I’ve known her as long as her son; they often come out at the same times, particularly for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Ariella is one of my oldest Saline friends and we get along well but she does have a way of getting on my nerves at times. 

It may have been because we were sitting around a campfire on a cold, windy night but for some reason Ariella chose to (one more time!) dredge up the lighter incident. She’s likely one of the few people who even remembers and is certainly the only one who would still bring it up. I found it positively annoying that she felt compelled to rehash an embarrassing incident in front of total strangers. But I went along, downplaying her customary exaggerations. “Uh…there was no ‘ball of flames,’ Ariella.” But she was obviously taking perverse pleasure in my clearly telegraphed discomfort. Not one minute later I got up and walked away from the fire, feeling fairly irritated.

I took a step or two before hearing a faint pop! followed by a hissing sound and cries of distress from Ariella. The washing machine tub fire-pan had sort of “exploded,” spraying her—and only her—with some mystery-fluid. Ariella was fine, but rattled.

It so happened that the washer tub was double walled and held some fluid in its internal space—hopefully just water—which I later realized was a way of helping balance an uneven load of clothes during the spin cycle. (When a load is unbalanced, the fluid rushes to the opposite side of the tub to compensate, helping stabilize the machine. Clever.) The fire had boiled the fluid and apparently there was some kind of a fill-cap that had popped off. The fill-hole just happened to be pointed Ariella’s way so she got sprayed with steam and hot mystery-liquid. Thanks to the multiple layers of warm clothes she was wearing, Gabriel’s mom was unhurt but flustered and confused. He heard the commotion, came over, and we gradually figured out what had happened. I seriously doubt Ariella made the connection between this bizarre incident and the story she’d just shared. Me: I found the irony delicious.

This final episode occurred after I’d written an early draft of this story. I wasn’t anticipating an additional material and don’t attribute any more meaning to it than the rest (which is to say, none). But, I must say, this final chapter is a curious and fortuitous postscript—one that neatly tidies up a tale’s loose ends and closes a circle.

   ©2017 by Tim Forsell      draft         2 May 2017

These Things Happen...Part I

I was reading an essay about Darwinian evolution and came across this bit describing a truly remarkable plant adaptation: 

Under the pressures of competition, the orchid Orphrys apifera undergoes a statistically adapted drift, some incidental feature in its design becoming over time ever more refined, until, consumed with longing, a misguided bee amorously mounts the orchid’s very petals, convinced that he has seen shimmering there a female’s fragile genitalia.

This passage was referring to a flower that impersonates a female bee, thereby inducing a male bee to attempt mating with it. In his ardor he picks up pollen and then transfers it to another flower, pollinating it. This bizarre subterfuge was something that I’d not yet heard of despite being aware of such marvels in the plant world, where mimicry is a commonplace strategy. This instance, though, is more convoluted than most. (More typical is the case of one plant resembling another that’s toxic.) After setting the book aside, I briefly mused that it would be interesting to learn more about this particular orchid—orchids being a type of plant I’m very fond of (who isn’t?) but know relatively little about. And then I promptly forgot about it all. 

That evening: in my chair, reading. Across the room, Dylan was in seated in front of her computer. I heard a familiar gentle exclamation of interest: a universal domestic gesture signifying that whatever was at hand was something worth imparting. As per our unstated rules about “spousal sharing,” a response to this signal is optional. But if I’m not really concentrating on something, I generally ask to hear about whatever it is.

Completely out of the blue, apropos of nothing, a friend of ours had just sent her a close-up photo of a ludicrously ornate orchid flower. At first, I didn’t even recall that I’d very recently been reading about orchids. But then, seeing the photo’s caption with the plant’s name—Ophrys apifera—I realized in a flash what was before me. “Hey! I was just reading about this plant a few hours ago!” I’d never heard of it (so far as I could recall) and had no idea what a bee orchid looked like. But there it was, in ten thousand glowing pixels. An odd coincidence? Well, bear in mind that, world wide, there are some 18,000 species of orchids in around 800 genera (of which Ophrys is one genus). One out of eighteen thousand. We then brought up onto the screen a collection of photos of other varieties of bee orchids. The following morning, I did some research.

Bee orchids are widespread throughout southern Europe, northern Africa, and Asia Minor. There are somewhere around 130 species, Ophrys apifera being one of the commonest. The group is remarkable and well-known for reproducing by way of a scheme called “pseudocopulation.” The showy flowers have slowly adapted to resemble the females of a number of species of bees and wasps. In addition—this perhaps even more implausible—the plant manufactures a sex pheromone mimicking that produced by the female insect the flower is impersonating. The male, in attempting to mate with the flower, collects little “packets” of pollen.  During subsequent visits to other flowers, he inadvertently cross-pollinates them. This is, of course, the standard insect-assisted pollination scheme but with an added twist in the form of the pheromone attractant. Most species of the bee orchid have one specific pollinator and that pollinator’s sex pheromone possesses its own specific chemical signature. Pheromones are varying blends of complex organic chemicals. So this is yet another of nature’s true wonders and a real whopper: a plant that has somehow learned to produce chemicals made by animals. But the bee orchid offers marvels at a bargain, two for the price of one. How this all came to be is an evolutionary conundrum. But I’ve strayed from the point….

We saw our friend Marty not long after and I asked why he’d forwarded that particular photo. Dylan is a botanist—no mystery there. Marty isn’t a plant enthusiast, nor even a gardener. It took him a moment to even recall what he’d sent. “Oh, I don’t know. I saw it posted online, thought it was pretty cool, and figured she might be interested.” When I told him the story we had a chuckle. Adding to the strangeness is the fact that Dylan sees loads of random stuff on the web and only shares odd bits with me, knowing I really don’t need to be distracted by the oodles of trivial-but-fascinating items that pop up on her computer screen daily (thanks to the nearly irresistible draw of Facebook). But she made that distinctive little sound which, as a dutiful partner, I heed.

So that was a classic example of the specific variety of synchronous incidents that people so often encounter: a chance tidbit, an exotic word or unfamiliar historic figure—things obscure, rarely seen, previously unknown—something that pops into your life almost without notice but then shows up again almost immediately. While they are certainly curious, attributing import to such things does seem pointless. People who profess certainty that synchronicities have no meaning and are purely accidental events will scoff at the notion of accrediting them with special meaning—they’re just coincidences, despite what might seem to be extraordinary odds against their happening.

In terms of odds and probabilities, the skeptics’ main argument goes like this: With the virtually limitless possibilities for combinations of events in a complex world, it’s only natural that, every so often, things that may highly improbable will occur. Such events are to be expected from time to time and certainly have no “cosmic” significance. This is undeniably a valid argument. I agree with the premise. In the case of my one-out-of-18,000 orchid: while that figure might sound impressive, a skeptic will quickly (and correctly) point out that the bulk of those species are obscure, rare, seldom-seen plants whereas the bee orchid is widespread and well-known. This makes it far more likely that it would appear as a random item on the web. True enough. But, still, there are a lot of orchids.

To chronic skeptics, such trifling items barely merit notice. Their reaction might be nothing more than a casual, Hunh…that’s funny. On occasion I’ve witnessed “nonbelievers”—generally of the highly rational, scientific-minded personality type (which describes a fair number of my friends and acquaintances)—shrug off a synchronicity they have themselves experienced in just such a fashion. A “believer,” on the other hand, would get a real jolt had the same thing befallen them. The different reactions lie in the very definition of the concept of synchronicity: according to Jüng, the event must have personal meaning.

Someone who receives a phonecall or email from an old friend, “out of the blue,” shortly after the person was thinking about that friend—another classic synchronicity—might or might not be justified in believing that the contact represents something quite exceptional. It certainly doesn’t prove some sort of telepathic connection. Nevertheless, when it happens to you, it can seem absolutely extraordinary.

For instance, there was the time I called my girlfriend and she answered the phone. So? Well, I had dialed her number. There was no ring-tone, just silence. But after a moment I heard her voice say, tentatively, “Hello?” She had picked up her receiver at the very moment I’d dialed. To call me. (This is reputedly a not terribly rare occurrence—a lot of synchronicities involve phonecalls.) But we were both stunned. And, as lovers, just plain tickled to death.          

Another broad category of synchronicities are those events lacking any particular meaning aside from just being weird—simultaneously uncanny, improbable, and completely pointless. They share a feature of having significance only to the person they happen to. Their impact might be difficult to convey to others. Everyone has a wide array of such experiences. They tend to have a completely arbitrary and capricious quality and have an disquieting effect that makes them unforgettable. The vivid memories of these can be called up at will—memories of things so implausible that they had no business happening. The strange events might not translate into verbal form, sometimes falling into a sub-category of anecdotal tales that I refer to as “Youda-hadda-been-there stories,” stories without a satisfying dénouement. For instance, if you dropped a nickel and watched it roll across the floor and come to a rest standing on edge, you would be astounded and want to tell everyone in earshot. And then would be almost as shocked to find that no one shared your astonishment. Here are two samples from my stockpile of personal experiences, (both being of the you’d-have-had-to-have-been-there variety):

This happened in the late 1990s during my long stint as a backcountry ranger. I spent many summers living in a log cabin in the wilderness and one of my duties was maintaining barbed-wire fences to block off part of the big meadow surrounding my cabin for horse pasturage. The flimsy fences would receive damage from the snowpack each winter and required continual maintenance. The following is an entry from my journal:

I finished repairing the back fence today. The last bit was the section across the river. To wrap up, I was tightening loose wires on the short stretch of fence between the river and the gate. I walked down to the river’s edge to see how that bit of fence crossing the gravel bar had held up. A very strange thing happened: I found a 2½ foot length of pressure-treated wood—a piece off of one of the fence posts, a sawed-off “splinter” roughly 2 inches in diameter. It was laying there in the meadow, essentially a piece of trash, keeping grass from growing under it. Since the thing didn’t “belong” there, without thought I picked it up and chucked it behind me, end-over-end, towards the gravel-bar (knowing it’d be washed away next spring in the flood). But this casual act turned into a breathtaking moment of perfection, absurd perfection. ◦◦◦◦◦ I flung it backwards—under-handed, while bent over at the waist—as hard as I could hoping to get it onto the gravel (about 30 feet away). But my lob overshot the gravel bar and heard it whang into the fence with a Sproi-oi-oing! and turned at the weird sound to see the still-quivering sliver of wood somehow stuck between the wires. I stood gawking as it slowly swayed to a stop. The thing was sandwiched between the bottom three of the four strands of barbed wire, straight up & down, centered perfectly with either end protruding several inches beyond a wire. (Take your left hand: hold three fingers in a position to represent three strands of a wire fence. With your right index finger held vertically, wedge it between the three fingers so that it separates the top and bottom fingers from the middle one. This is how the stick was positioned.) ◦◦◦◦◦ I Left it there as a testimony to utterly random events. A hundred people could throw 2½ foot-long sticks at a barbwire fence for a hundred years and likely never repeat this. I’m sure most people wouldn’t think anything of the deal (except that it was ha-ha funny…maybe) but for me, it had the distinctive zest of a minor miracle.

  

Another utterly trivial thing somewhat like this happened in 1980. I was sharing a house in Boulder, Colorado with several friends. My bedroom happened to have its own bathroom. The old toilet was one of those with a low water level in its bowl, resulting a comparatively shallow pool roughly six inches across.

One morning I was brushing my hair in front of the mirror above the sink, which was right beside the toilet. I owned a well-crafted, wooden-handled, boar-bristle brush that I was quite fond of. The brush hit a snag, leapt out of my hand, and fell in the toilet.

This was not some earth-shaking tragedy but I’d already taken a couple of pees that morning (without flushing) and the “water” in the bowl was a vibrant shade of yellow. As the brush fell through the air, I watched what seemed to happen in slow motion and “heard” myself silently shrieking Ohhhhh, NOOOOO!! The brush landed in the bowl but instead of hearing a splash, there was a wood-on-porcelain “tunk…tunktunk.” I watched this happen. And there was the brush: suspended horizontally over the yellow puddle at its narrowest point, resting on either tip. It was perched just barely above the water, tips barely extending beyond the pool’s edge. My brush was totally dry and undefiled. I retrieved it and finished brushing my hair, flat-out amazed. I told all my housemates and got funny looks in return. None of them seemed remotely impressed.

I can see that these two anecdotes may not have their intended impact. And for the very reasons I mentioned. Let me try again with another.

Like the first story, this one took place when I was a ranger stationed at the backcountry cabin. Somewhat ironically—considering the primitive nature of my work—my days were ruled by clocks. I had to make radio contact at set times, meet people at trailheads…and had to wake up in the morning. (I should at least mention that I have a strange “thing” with clocks, with a long history of weird events involving timepieces. Only two weeks before the following account, I had an eerily similar experience.) This, an entry from my 1991 journal:

The day began with another remarkable event involving my clocks. The cheap digital watch resides in my uniform shirt breast pocket, shirt hanging on the wall near the head of my bed. Its wimpy alarm doesn’t wake me unless I need it to and sort of “ask” the night before. (Can’t explain it but this almost always works; I just firmly “tell myself” that I need to hear the alarm.) Otherwise, I sleep right through it and get rudely woken by the much louder Timex clock on the shelf by my head. I recently re-set the watch’s alarm for the shortened days so it now goes off at six instead of five-thirty. Last night I re-set my old clock for six as well. ◦◦◦◦◦ I woke up in the dark and listened to the wind raking through the pines as I was returning from the dead, feeling a substantial breeze coming from the cat-door across the way. Knew that one or the other of the alarms would be going off soon. My watch does a faint beep-beep, two beeps per second with a one second pause in between. The Timex does a much louder DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO, four tones per second with a one second lapse. ◦◦◦◦◦ Now, this is just incredible, it really is: my two timepieces went off “together”—the alarm clock first, DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO—and when the one second pause began my watch kicked in with its beep-beep. The two were absolutely. Perfectly. Synchronized. DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-beep-beep-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-beep-beep-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-beep-beep-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-beep-beep…. Amazingly and just ridiculously improbable. The odds of this happening are, I would say, astronomically slim. There was no overlap—they were perfectly in step, which made this kind of a big deal in my eyes. Plus, it’s not like the two devices are synchronizable; the watch is digital and I set my clock with a little pointer-hand. Why do these weird things happen to me?

©2017 by Tim Forsell     draft             2 May 2017