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
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