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Antillean Crested Hummingbird

When our family lived in Caracas, the American newspaper, The Daily Journal, ran a contest. They showed a cartoon of a cute little alien with his palm extended. Contestants were to caption the cartoon and the best caption would win a week’s trip to Barbados for two.

My dad, who as far as I know never had any interest in aliens, entered a caption: Yes, we do deliver. And it won! He paid the difference for my sister and I and a few months later, we landed in Barbados, an island in the Netherlands Antilles. I think I was 12, which meant my sister was nearly 7.

We stayed at a very cool hotel in Bridgeport, the main town. The hotel, I remember, was small, and we had a suite or apartment on the first floor. Out back, there was an open porch that faced the beach. It had a table and chairs and a glorious view of the beach. Every afternoon, waiters brought around the tea and crumpets and the four of us would sit out there, sunburned from our beach combing, and sip tea like proper British folks, which we weren’t.

One afternoon, I was sitting out there by myself, trying to decide if I should dip my spoon into the sugar bowl and add a couple of teaspoons to my tea, which I didn’t really like. A hummingbird suddenly appeared on the porch and touched down on the edge of the sugar bowl. I was shocked. I’d never seen a hummingbird this close before. It was a beautiful little thing with luminous bluish green wings like the bird in the photo above. And it moved fast, those wings pumping, fluttering, keeping it aloft as it dipped its delicate beak into that mountain of sugar in the bowl.

I think this memory is so vivid for me, so many years after the fact, because it was when I realized, if only intuitively, that we are all part of a much larger picture. It was the instant that I recognized I was part of an intricate web of sensations and connections that extended well beyond my little world of family, friends, Venezuela and this Barbados trip. That hummingbird and I were connected in an inexplicable way. I tasted that sugar when he dipped his beak into the sugar bowl. I felt the frantic beat of his wings, the hammering of his little heart, his fear of me as a huge shape nearby. But his hunger overcame his fear and he feasted from that sugar bowl.

Ever since, I have been fascinated by hummingbirds. In Ecuador some years ago, we stayed in a place in the high mountains where hummingbirds flocked to the feeders in the evening, dozens of them vying for food, their wings moving so fast they generated a sound, a collective humming. We stood at the windows watching them up close, jut a thin pane of glass between us.

During the winter months here in Florida we sometimes spot hummingbirds, the ruby-throated variety. In fact, the other day, I was thinking about my parents, both deceased, and a pair of hummingbirds touched down on the plants just outside my window.

A shudder of shock tore through me. Mom? Dad? Really? Was I seeing what I thought I was seeing? Maybe these figures were actually fast-moving butterflies. Or something else altogether.

They were there – then gone.

And I thought of the Barbados hummingbird way back when, and how my family and I had come to be in that place, at that time, when the beautiful little bird touched down on the edge of the sugar bowl. My parents had made that trip possible. I was pretty sure they had just dropped by to say hello.

The Clintons at Trump’s wedding in 2015

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Bernie Sanders’s path to the presidential nomination just got a lot more difficult tonight. He won just one state – Rhode Island – out of five. Clinton has far more delegates than Bernie and more super delegates, that UNdemocratic rule in the Democratic party that makes sure the party – rather than the people – have the final say about who becomes the nominee.

Trump swept all five states by huge margins.

Unless something nearly miraculous happens, Clinton and Trump will be the nominees. I would love to see a woman as president, but not Clinton. She’s part of the political machine, entrenched in establishment politics, in bed with Wall Street, and I’ve yet to hear the kind of passion from her that I hear continually from Sanders.

Yes, she’s smart and experienced and, thanks in large part to Obama appointing her secretary of state, knows her foreign policy. Unfortunately, her foreign policy is business as usual – the U.S. as world cop, endless war in the Mideast, take out dictators whom we helped put into power…well, we all know this story by now.

Her vote for the war in Iraq helped propel the chaos in the Mideast, the rise of Isis, and terrorism and did not, as one of Bush’s boys predicted, end with the people of Iraq welcoming us with open arms. Instead, with the fall of Baghdad, the seething cauldron of hatred and fear and poverty blew wide open and here we are in 2016, trillions of dollars later, thousands of Americans dead, countries decimated, and millions of displaced people on the move.

Clinton claims she would rein in Wall Street, but her super pacs of banker boys have raised millions for her. Her speeches to Goldman Sachs and other Wall Street organizations have earned her sums that most of us won’t see in our lifetimes.

When pressured to release transcripts of her speeches, she gives that annoying Hillary laugh and says she would be glad to release them if all the other candidates do the same. That means the Republicans. Sanders doesn’t have any transcripts to release. He doesn’t have any super pacs. Yet, he has raised more money than any other candidate through small online donations from ordinary people, several million of them. She is losing among young voters who realize what they may gain through a Sanders presidency and what they stand to lose with a Clinton presidency.

Tonight in Philadelphia when she gave her victory speech, I was struck by just how far to the left her rhetoric has moved since this campaign started. At some points she sounded like Sanders – but just the words not the genuine passion of convictions. Like Claire Underwood in House of Cards, Clinton is a strategist, an opportunist whose instincts are so sharply honed she’s able to sniff out the political climate and play to it.

My neighbors, whom I’ve known for 11 years, are Republicans. And for the first time, we are on the same political page. If Sanders is the nominee, they will vote for him because what he says about big money in politics, about the hold corporate America and the banking industry have over the rest of us resonates for them. If Clinton is the nominee, they will vote Republican – i.e., Trump. I have friends who are Clinton supporters, friends who are supporters of Sanders. And I doubt that the Sanders supporters will vote for Clinton just to keep a Dem in the White House. They will probably choose to sit out this election.

In a recent town hall, Sanders was asked how he would unify the party if Clinton was the nominee. I thought his response was terrific, that it wasn’t incumbent on him to convince his supporters to vote for Clinton. She was the one who would have to win them over by moving farther to the left in her platform. Free college tuition at public universities. Health care as a right for all rather than a privilege. Overturning Citizens United. Not engaging in endless war. Moving rapidly away from fossil fuels. She would have to embrace more of his truly progressive platform. After all, Clinton needs the youth vote and the independents who embrace Sanders if she is to win the presidency.

If she is the nominee, I don’t think she can beat Trump. He appeals to angry racists who must have an enemy- the Mexicans, the Muslims, ISIS, take your pick. Hatred is often just as powerful as love. In spite of my hope that we are moving into a new, more progressive paradigm, the old guard is alive and well and turning out in shocking numbers for Trump.

I recently told a friend that I would be sitting out this election if Clinton is the nominee. Her response: But we can’t have a President Trump! Well, maybe Trump is the exclamation point at the end of a long haul since a movie star named Ronald Reagan won the White House. If we are incapable of connecting the dots, if we continually vote against our best interests as a nation and as individuals, then perhaps he is the president we deserve.

At the very least, Bernie has changed the dialogue in this country and made people more aware of the existing disparities and inequalities. And, in the larger scheme of things, that’s no small feat.

Whenever someone famous and talented, someone who has made an impact, dies, people notice synchronicities. Not surprisingly, that has been the case with the death of Prince at age 57. I started noticing the color purple on web sites, clothes and cars. Maybe the colors were always out there, but I had no reason to notice. I read where someone heard about Prince’s death, looked outside, and saw a purple roadster drive by.

Robert, aka Rabbit, a longtime friend from my hometown of Minneapolis, which was also Prince’s place of birth, life and death, wrote about a synchronicity he experienced on the day of Prince’s death.

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“A while back I heard an NPR or a MPR interview with author Alan Light on a new biography of Nina Simone What Happened, Miss Simone, which I picked up today at the the Rondo public library. Looking at Light’s other titles I saw: Let’s Go Crazy: Prince and the Making of Purple Rain. That, of course, caught my attention. I’d just the news. Before I started reading, I browsed the index and found a “Prince” entry. Late in her career, considering tunes for a covers album, Simone thought about Prince’s Sign of the Times, which she eventually recorded.

“Years ago in Jamaica I was staying with Maggie and her Jamaican boyfriend Chester, who had gone to school in Texas, was in NYC during the “Shaft” years, and loved Philly soul. I can remember he and I heard on the radio that Nina Simone had died, and we talked about her career. I can’t remember what time of year it was although it certainly wasn’t summer. Randomly reading through the book now…Nina in Barbados, in Liberia, I came across…Nina Simone’s date of death:  April 21, 2003! Wow, wow….today’s date, and now the date of Prince’s death.

“I’m glad I got to experience the dynamic genius of Prince Rogers Nelson in concert at First Avenue in his prime, before he did arena gigs.”

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I saw him only once, when he was 16, a year before he signed a recording contract. It was in an old out-of-business movie theater in North Minneapolis. A neighbor mentioned the show and recommended seeing the kid, that he was going to be big. I don’t remember much about his performance that day. Oddly, the only thing I recall is that my ex and I were among the few white folks in the crowd. In other words, he hadn’t been discovered yet.

Late this afternoon, I was sitting in our backyard, reading, while Nika and Noah played tug of war with a toy. I happened to look up and realized the bougainvillea bush was in full bloom. I decided to test the camera on my iPhone 6s to see how   it performed for a close up.

Just as I approached the bougainvillea, a dragonfly touched down on a branch and stayed there while I snapped the photo and didn’t fly away from five or ten minutes afterward.

What’s interesting about this little incident, other than the beauty of it, is that less than an hour before, I was in Megan’s room, trying to decide what to tackle first. Our neighbor recently gave us a great bed that we put in her room and now stuff has to be moved or discarded. What decorates her walls? Dragonflies that she painted when she was in high school. This little guy is just one of a dozen or so.

After I decided I didn’t have the energy to tackle her room yet, I was reading about animals as messengers and thinking about the first time I heard of dragonflies as symbolic of news. I was picking Megan up from middle school and a Peruvian psychic, Maya, who lived across the street, was with me. When a dragonfly flitted across the windshield, she exclaimed, “Oh, Trish beautiful! Good news is on the way.”

“It is?”

“That’s what dragonflies mean.”

At the time, I was waiting to hear about whether my contract with a publisher would be renewed. “Is there a time frame?”

“The adult dragonfly lives for just a few months if the weather is warm. But in cooler periods, it may not live longer than a few weeks.”

I liked the few weeks scenario better than I did the few months. Sure enough a few weeks later my contract was renewed.

I don’t wish this dragonfly a short life, but I do hope his appearance means a few weeks rather than months. Regardless, it was one of those synchros that made me feel I was back in the flow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiZD6Td8wNg&feature=youtu.be

I play the on-line game, Words With Friends, and the other day a new player arrived with the name: Herman.Cain. Right away I thought of one of the Republican candidates for U.S. president in 2012. Herman Cain became known for his 9-9-9 plan. He said it so often that people couldn’t mention his name without saying ‘9-9-9.’

Then, the next day Jane Clifford sent me the above YouTube video about the number 9. She also wrote this:

“Utterly mind blowing!

– 1,440 minutes in a day reduce to 9.

– 86,400 seconds in a day reduce to 9.

– 10,080 minutes a day = 9. 5.25,600 mins in a year = 9 !

– All angles in a circle ,triangle, square, tetrahedron etc reduce to 9. The number 9 governs time and space!”

She also wrote that right after she posted the video on her FB page, she wrote an e-mail to a friend and saw that it was sent at 9:09. She added that her life number in numerology is 9.

I doubt that I’m playing Word With Friends with the 9-9-9 guy. It’s probably another Herman Cain or someone using the name for whatever weird reason. But it proved to be a synchronicity.

In astrology, Mars isn’t known as the red planet that may or may not someday sustain human life. In astrology, it’s about forward momentum, our sexuality, our capacity for aggression and competition, for achieving our ambitions. It governs surgery that involves knives, weapons, war. It’s about action. Every two years, it turns retrograde, when it appears to be moving backward relative to the earth. In a very real, personal sense, this retro period slows down our lives.

We encounter delays in areas that are important to us. Our physical energy may not be quite up to par. Our ambitions may be thwarted by circumstances.

On April 17, Mars turned retrograde in fire sign Sagittarius, and won’t straighten out again until June 29. If you know your time, place, and date of birth, get your free birth chart here to find out where Mars in Sagittarius falls in your chart. Here’s the link for finding out what the houses mean.

The best way to deal with this retrograde is to go with the flow, as stymied as it may be. During a retrograde in 2005, a month after my dad had died, I was stopped for speeding and got a ticket, my first in years. I tried to explain to the cop that my dad had just died (sob stories sometimes help!) but this guy wasn’t listening. My ticket cost me nearly $200 and time in an online traffic school.

A few days before this Mars retro, Rob got a speeding ticket on his way to teach a yoga class and is now taking the very boring online traffic course that saves you money and points on your license. The message with Mars retro is TO SLOW DOWN and if you don’t do it willingly the universe will do it for you.

This Mars retro will be combined, starting April 28, with a Mercury retrograde in Taurus, the second Merc retro this year, which lasts until May 22. We’ve written about Mercury retros before. But the gist is that communication goes awry, travel is screwed up, computers crash, appliances die, and it’s a time that favors revisions, reconsideration, rethinking.

Fortunately, this year’s presidential election in the U.S. doesn’t happen under a Mercury retro, as it did in November 2000. Astrologers back then were predicting chaos and, sure enough, at 7:49 p.m., NBC decided they had enough data from exit polls in Florida and Tom Brokaw called the state for Al Gore. With Florida’s 25 electoral votes, it meant he had won the election.

However, shortly after 10 p.m. – less than an hour after Mercury had turned direct – Brokaw backtracked and said that George W. Bush had won the state and the election. We all know what ensued after that – the endless dispute over the chads on Palm Beach County’s ballot and the eventual decision by the Supreme Court that Bush was the 43^rd president of the U.S. Welcome to the global world of a Mercury retro.

Mars, Mercury. Our physicality and the way we communicate. When they go dormant, we feel it. But our experiences of these retrogrades depend on how we act and react, how in tune we are with ourselves and the larger world.

This image makes for an interesting visual synchronicity. At left is Enzo Ferrari, the founder of Ferrari autos and Mesut Özil, a German soccer player who plays on an English team and is considered one Europe’s most gifted footballer.

Ferrari died in 1988 and Mesut was born the same year. So maybe after a lifetime of inventiveness, Ferrari moved onto sports.

Or not. It would be interesting to know if the two have other similar personality and life traits. Looking like someone from the past doesn’t mean you were that person. Just like two people who look alike and are both alive may have no genetic relationship.

I like the concept of past lives and future lives, but not so much the idea of one life following the next in linear fashion. Instead, I see reincarnation as lives all happening simultaneously and one life possibly influencing another both forward and back through time. In other words, my past and future selves are all living their lives in the Now. What I do might affect a past life or future life, and a future life – which from a linear time point of view doesn’t yet exist – can affect my present life.

Of course, it’s kind of complicated to think about such influences since we live day-to-day in linear time. In a way, it’s like cultures, such as the Mayans, that have two calendars – one, the everyday calendar, and the other, a spiritual calendar.

You’ve got to wonder, though, Ozil drives a Ferrari.

A haunted place is usually a house or location where residual energy remains of the people who lived there or of the events that occurred there. But can this residual energy exist in some other form? Can there, perhaps, be something that occurs on the same day, in the same location, with the same person, that other people tune into  as they enter the place?

I drove back to Orlando with Megan so that our dog and I could surprise Rob when he returned from Minneapolis. Megan and I got there early Monday afternoon and she had dogs to walk. So we unloaded our stuff, got Noah and Nika, her dog, into the house, then she left to tend to her dog clients and I walked over to the Panera Bread to get us some lunch.

The walk is pleasant, along two cobblestone roads, through a charming Orlando neighborhood shaded with trees and lined with older homes. The weather was perfect – high 70s, not much humidity, and I was in a great mood.

Panera is something of an anomaly in my book – a fast-food place that features fresh, delicious meals. I nearly always order the same thing – You Pick 2, $6.99, a bowl of broccoli cheddar soup and the Greek salad.

When I got there that afternoon the lunch crowd had come and gone. It was probably around 2:30. One man was in front of me. I usually scan the menu on the wall just in case something new and delectable has been added to the choices, but decided to buy my usual. Megan’s usual is the broccoli cheddar soup in a bread bowl. So I get to the cashier, a cute little thing with a big smile.

“So what would you like?” she asked.

“The You Pick 2.” And right then before I ordered the soup, I experienced a distinct clicking sound in my head. It’s the only way I can describe it. I felt as if I had dived head first through that opening in the wave at the top of the post and into another dimension or level of reality. I blurted, “Chocolate cheddar soup…”

The cashier’s eyes widened with surprise. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you said that.”

Yeah, well, I couldn’t believe it, either. I mean, c’mon. Chocolate cheddar soup?

“You’re like the fourteenth person who has said that to me today,” she went on. “How weird is that,  right?”

You have no idea just how weird, I thought, and walked back to Megan’s place with our lunch order, puzzling over what had happened.

So you’re a cashier at Panera Bread who, during the course of your shift, wait on scores of customers. But during your shift, fourteen people make the same mistake when referring to broccoli cheddar soup and call it chocolate cheddar soup. Maybe you don’t really take notice until it happens three or four times – a cluster – and now you’re keeping track, as this cashier did.

Later that evening, Rob, Megan and I walked to a place downtown for a bite to eat and started talking, as we often do, about the weird stuff that we’d experienced in the last few days. My Panera Bread experience seemed pretty lame in light of their stories – which I’ll try to explain in subsequent posts. But I think that Megan nailed it when she said, “Wow, Mom, so you walked into that chocolate cheddar soup vibration, picked up on it, and ordered it.”

Residual energy, like a haunted house, I thought.

The clincher for me was when Megan asked if I’d seen the wave painting she’d done recently and had put up on her bedroom wall. I had seen it on Facebook, but not in person, and hurried into her bedroom. The second I saw that wave, I knew I now had a visual depiction of what I’d experienced at Panera Bread. That hole in the wave was my multidimensional portal.

On March 17, we posted an email from our friend, Dale Dassel, whose mother was dying of cancer and how synchronicity had helped him prepare for here death. As Dale was writing a followup to my email, explaining that his mother had just had last rites, his father came hurrying into his room to tell him she had just passed away. He sent this email two days later, and is already experiencing contact with her.

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Thank you so much for the kind wishes. Mom was indeed waiting for her last rites. She departed about 45 minutes after the priest left, and we’ve been seeing her name all weekend. On Saturday at noon, I drove to the grocery store to buy food, which we haven’t done in nearly a month. On the way, I was thinking of all the times I’d been grocery shopping with Mom, and that we would never have that experience again. I began crying, of course, then I saw her name on a street sign immediately on the right.

I pulled over, turned around, and drove back to photograph it with Mom’s cell phone, which I kept because I don’t have one. (Photo above) The weather was beautiful and sunny, with a brilliant blue sky above. That was my confirmation that Mom was fine on the other side, a reassurance that I did right in following the synchro signs in the week leading up to her passing.

Later, Dad and I visited the mausoleum to pick up a ceramic angel statuette from my grandmother’s grave because I wanted to have it at Mom’s viewing this week. I’d impulsively kept it after Grandma’s funeral in 1999, and it has been in our house ever since. But I turned the place upside down without success. We questioned Mom about it several times before she passed, and she gave us conflicting reports. “Where is Grandma’s angel statue?” She replied: “I’ll find it for you.” Then: “It’s in the bathroom.”

She used to have it sitting on the shelf by the sink, but it wasn’t there. I recalled that the statue had been moved several times over the years, in various rooms, but it was nowhere to be found, and we searched everywhere at least 3 times. At the cemetery, there was a small ceramic angel figurine hanging on a wire below the flower vase, but it wasn’t the right one. Dad’s phone buzzed and he walked down the hall to answer it while I tearfully spoke to Grandma, telling her that Mom was with her now and asking them to watch over us (I haven’t visited the mausoleum in years, so it was very emotional for me).

Then I took a few steps back and noticed Mom’s name on an adjacent crypt on the wall above Grandma’s grave. When Dad returned, I pointed it out as another sign from Mom, and I asked him to take a few pictures of it.

Afterward, we drove to the funeral home to finalize the details of Mom’s service. Since she is being cremated, we were shown a selection of urns on display in the gallery. We were drawn to a wooden box urn topped by a ceramic angel figurine. Another box type urn on a lower shelf was engraved synchronistically with Mom’s name: Linda (but with a different surname). We didn’t make a choice, but the synchro was another pleasant nudge from beyond. Mom is saying hi to us again! 🙂

We’ve spent the rest of the weekend sorting through the house, cleaning out in preparation to donate things to Mom’s church, which we will begin attending regularly, as we promised Mom before she departed. She was very pleased by that decision, and told us it’s a good thing. Saturday night we delved into the photo boxes, reminiscing about our life and all the good times we’ve had together. It was wonderfully theraputic & uplifting. I found a small book about ‘A Mother’s love’ which I had never seen before. I read it with increasing tearfulness at the very moving text within, and then I fell apart at the end, because the last page was signed by Mom to me, untold years ago (probably a few years after I was born).

For personal mementos, I decided to keep Mom’s glasses and her cancer hat, a beautiful blue & white tie dye cap which she wore to every chemo session. I walked into the room and saw the hat lying atop your book, where I’d placed it the night before. In the morning sunlight, I was awestruck to realize that the color design of Mom’s cap almost perfectly matched the soft pastels of the book jacket – an absolutely beautiful synchronicity that fills me with happiness. I know Mom is safe on the other side, where we will be reunited someday. Thank you so much for writing The Other Side. I am forever in your debt.

I periodically pick up Deirdre Bair’s biography of Jung and page through it, reading a chapter here, more chapters there I’ve never been able to sit down and read it from cover to cover. With the index, it’s nearly 900 pages long.

But tonight I happened to turn to a section of Jung’s The Red Book, a massive journal that started because of, as Bair describes it, “his first psychotic vision” during a journey by train to Schaffhausen. “The vision occurred after he decided it would be dishonest to continue treating patients using ‘Freudian theoretical assumptions.’” This happened around the time of his break with Freud, war was imminent, and Jung was “beset by so many other dreams and fantasies…that he was led to formulate the theory of active imagination, the process of concentrating on a single image or event long enough to allow it to develop its own volition.”

This sounds a lot like what happens in lucid dreaming, where you wake up inside a dream and seize on a particular image that will enable you to move more fully into the dream. The idea with lucid dreaming, though, is that by seizing on an image, you eventually are able to control and manipulate the dream.

On another train trip in 1914, Bair writes, Jung realized that that the only way he could define a system separate from Freud’s would be to treat himself as though he were his own patient. So he decided to confine his new journal to “language metaphors,” and allow the unguided flow to pour out of him. The first time he sat down to write, “he remembered hearing a distinctly female voice speaking quietly but with authority. “This is art,” she said.

According to Bair, this made Jung angry because he thought he was constructing “an empirical science.” Eventually, this female voice morphed into a male voice, Elias, who didn’t stick around long, and then into a second male voice, Philemon. “Jung described Philemon as the pagan voice of an old man of ‘simply superior knowledge.

To me, this sounds like channeling. Or like the muse of a deeply creative person whose voice and personality are distinctly different from that of the individual. Jung believe that Philemon was teaching him “psychological objectivity, the reality of the soul.

Many of his Philemon writings are in The Red Book, which the Jung family kept under wraps for years because it smacked of madness. It includes not only Jung’s writings during this period, but his sketches, paintings, doodle, the inner self made manifest in art and words.

Years after Jung started The Red Book, he allowed his translator and friend, R.F.C. Hull to read The Red Book. Hull is best known for his translation of The Collected Works of C.G. Jung. His take on The Red Book is fascinating for its insight into the connection between madness and genius, between creativity and the unconscious, and into Jung himself.

“Talk of Freud self-analysis – Jung was a walking asylum in himself, as well as its head physician.” Hull thought The Red Book provided “the most convincing proof that Jung’s whole system is based on psychotic fantasies – which of course it is – and therefore the work of a lunatic.” But he compared Jung to a medicine man, a shaman “who understood madness and can heal it, because at periods they are half-mad themselves.”

Jung’s achievement, Hull concluded, “…lay in hammering that material into a system of psychotherapy that worked.”

I think Hull missed the mark in many respects. But in all fairness to Hull, he was Jung’s contemporary and was seeing the material from that perspective. To me, it seems that Jung’s legacy went well beyond his system of psychotherapy.

His work hurled open doors about the nature of human consciousness and how it impacts the nature of our personal realities, what we experience day to day in our own lives. It coincides with fairly recent discoveries in quantum physics that tell us an event doesn’t happen until it is observed, which is another way of saying that consciousness is the sum total. Everything. Without it, a thousand trees can fall in a forest but if there’s no one around to see it, to hear it, has it actually happened?

Thanks to Jung, the idea that we create our lives from the inside out, through our thoughts, beliefs, desires, intentions- through everything that makes up our consciousness – is not quite the outlier notion it once was. Debate the idea with yourself, with family and friends. Argue for or against it. Think about it, mull it over, seriously consider it. And then ask yourself: Suppose Jung was right?

And suppose synchronicity is the place where it all bleeds out, coalescing in seemingly miraculous and stunning ways? Suppose synchronicity, the term that Jung coined, is the voice of that quantum theory?