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This is a curious topic that we’ve written about previously, but one that interests me because all of my life people have asked me where I’m from. Trish grew up in Venezuela, yet very few people ask where she’s from because she speaks without any noticeable Latin accent.

I didn’t originally gain an accent because I had moved from somewhere else where people spoke differently.  But, for whatever reason, my speech was somehow different…different enough that when I was in fourth grade I was sent to a speech therapist who visited our school every week. I remember the  nice woman who would try to tell me how to move my tongue when I talked.

After leaving Minnesota, the inquiries about my origin became more specific. It was usually…”Are you from Canada?” When I go back to Minnesota, it seems that everyone there speaks with an accent, even though I hadn’t noticed so much when I was living there. And still people there ask where I’m from.

I’ve never had surgery that somehow accounted for how the woman in the video and others gained their accents.  So I guess mine was a speech impediment. Trish still thinks I speak with accent, but she relates it to Minnesota-talk. ‘Ya, sure, doncha know, you betcha, aye?’ That’s an exaggeration. But sort of what I hear when I go back.

I heard about how the woman in the video awoke from surgery with a British accent from Connie Cannon, who offered three possible reasons for foreign accent syndrome. Apparently, there are about 100 cases of foreign accent syndrome.

Here are Connie’s thoughts…

“I’m wondering if, while deeply anesthetized, these folks experience one of three potential events: they either return to a former life lived in the country where the language is native, (one women who had surgery awakened with a permanent, strong Irish accent for which no one has any explanation….true in each of the 100 cases), or perhaps they have become hosts for a discarnate entity, (possession or spirit attachment), or, their soul “walked out” and a different soul “walked in”….a phenomenon extensively explored by Ruth Montgomery. (I’m not sure where my personal belief is concerning Walk-ins.)”

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Of course mainstream science doesn’t accept any of those possibilities, which are metaphysical in nature. But there seems to be no simple scientific explanation. It remains a mystery. Supposedly, there are also cases where the person speaks a different language, not just an accent. If that’s true, then the mystery is even deeper.

Do our animal buddies follow us throughout our lives, once a cat, then a dog, then a hamster or some wild bird that roosts in our backyard? This is one area where a past life regression probably won’t yield much information that you can check through Google. But I suspect there are clues here and there that may be telling.

We recently posted a piece about a kitten we’re fostering for our daughter until she finds a roommate who isn’t allergic to cats. I put the post on Facebook and our friend, Vivian Ortiz, remarked that the kitten might be a reborn Kali. Vivian is intuitive when it comes to animals and it got me thinking.

Kali was a dusky conure that graced our lives for five years, from 2000-2005. She was a lover, a cutie, smart and sassy, and we gave her a lot of freedom.

She spent most her days under a tree in our backyard, on top of her cage or perched in the tree she called home. Every evening, we brought her indoors, where she snuggled into her little house and slept until dawn.

Then in October 2005, Hurricane Wilma ripped through South Florida as a category 1. It stalled over Wellington, the eye was directly over us. When you’re in the eye of a hurricane, you can walk outside into sunlight and blue skies, so that’s what we did.   In addition to the destruction to our yard – trees down, plants ripped up, fence down, screens ripped away – the tree where Kali had spent her days had split down the middle. It was as if some giant had come in with a huge machete and just chopped it in half.

At the time, we didn’t see it as anything other than another piece of destruction.

As the storm started moving again, we hurried back inside and waited for the backside of the hurricane. It was worse than the front of the hurricane. But fortunately Wilma sped up and an hour later, was gone and had left a lot of devastation in her wake, including power lines. We didn’t have electricity for 10 days.

As we were cleaning up the yard and house in the aftermath of the storm, we moved Kali and her cage outside, close but not under her decimated tree. She got spooked by the sounds of the generators that we and most of our neighbors had started up and flew off. We ran after her but lost sight of her. We searched for her until dark, when a cold front moved in.

The next morning, Rob got up at dawn and went looking for her. He found her across the street, huddled under some leaves, and brought her home. She was obviously sick, but no vets were open. Nothing was open. She died that evening, when I was holding her against my chest, and we buried her under her tree. That tree, eleven years later, is huge and beautiful, completely healed.

Vivian had met Kali several times. She came with us on a number of our road trips and spent time on Vivian’s porch on Tybee Island, where she was fascinated by the salt marsh and its diverse wildlife.

I was bewildered initially by Vivian’s comment that the kitten might be Kali. But the more I’ve thought about it and observed the cat – how she plays, how she interacts fearlessly with our dog (which is at least a thousand times her size), with the other cats and with the people around her, I think Vivian may be onto something. The kitten doesn’t say, Hola or Hello or any of the other words Rob taught Kali, but there are times when there’s a look in her eyes that reminds me of Kali.

It’s a look that is curious but stately, playful and fun, knowing and wise. Kali, like the kitten, was Megan’s animal, but we inherited her. A friend on Facebook suggested, half-jokingly, that we should call her Sanders because of our support for Bernie. She responds to the name, so that’s who she is now. Sanders, who may be a reincarnated Kali. She’s now at Megan’s house, and has been renamed Piper, which really does fit her.

I sure wish she spoke English. I’m still hoping to hear Hola or Hello! But in lieu of spoken words, it’s her eyes that capture me, intrigue me, make me whisper, Hey, Kali, is that you?

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In 1984, Chris Cox, an editor at Ballantine Books, bought my first novel, In Shadow. He was the editor for my next ten books, was also a writer, and went to the Amazon and to Colombia with us when Rob and I led travel tours for writers through Avianca Airlines. He’s in that tiny picture at the top of the post, the guy at the far right. He was a complete original, funny and smart, adventurous and compassionate, and had a Virgo eye for detail, a valuable asset for an editor. I have always felt enormous gratitude to him for launching my career as a writer.

He died in 1990, one of the many young men of that time killed by AIDS. At his memorial service in New York, Susan Sarandon spoke movingly of her long-time friendship with Chris, which dated back before her first movie. I later was told by Chris’s friend and fellow editor, Cheryl, that Sarandon had paid for a private nurse for Chris during the final months of his illness.

I also spoke at that memorial service, remembering Chris’s sense of adventure on the trips he took with us. He was the first to suggest we get off the boat and traipse through the jungle, the first to board an inflatable raft at night that took us through a tributary, surrounded by a cacophony of jungle sounds. He was the first to eat the piranha we caught, the first to trade trinkets with the locals for a beautiful owl that we brought onto the boat and set free at the jungle camp where we stayed a couple of nights.

I had bought this wooden sculpture, the traveling man, on one of those trips and talked about how it exemplified Chris’s intrepid spirit.

After he died, I eventually lost touch with the people in his circle – Bob Wyatt, who was then editor –in-chief at Ballantine, and Iris Bass, who had been Chris’s wonderful assistant.

Periodically over the years, I “call” on Chris to get the publishing ball rolling. It goes something like this: Hey, you guys on the other side, can you help get stuff moving here? This group of publishing folks consists of Chris, our first agent Diane Cleaver, Kate Duffy, who was my editor at Kensington, and several writers. So, several days ago, en route to Orlando to celebrate Rob’s birthday, I called specifically on Chris and this time I added, Give me a sign that you received the message, ok?

Two days later, I received an email from the editor at Page Street who bought our book on precognition, Sensing the Future, which comes out in January 2017. Marissa said she loved the book and was sending it on to the copy editor. She then sent an introductory email to me and the copy editor. When I saw the copy editor’s name, Iris Bass, I thought no way it can be the same Iris. Then she emailed:

Thanks Marissa and hello Trish –

Not meaning to “weird you out,” Trish—esp. given the genre of this book—but we already know each other, sort of. I am the Iris Bass who was Chris Cox’s assistant 25+ years ago when you were writing mysteries for Ballantine. Not all that weird, actually; publishing is a surprisingly small world.

Publishing may be a small world, but it’s not that small and the odds impressed me. And I knew that Iris was the sign that Chris had received the message.Save

I found this on Whitley Strieber’s site. He believes it’s “interesting enough to post.”  It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0YTrd4v0Mc#t=28

Adele Aldridge just emailed us with a synchro related to this object. She is creating origami peace cranes for a coloring book she is creating. Here’s her current diagram for one of them:

Today’s Summer Solstice also features a full moon, known as the Honey Moon, which according to the Farmer’s Almanac hasn’t happened since 1948.

Make your wish list, folks, and when the solstice begins at 6:34 PM EDT, create a ritual of some sort with your wish list and release it to the universe.

Enjoy!

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You have to hand it to the ancient Greeks and their mythology. They knew their stuff. For every human flaw, for every psychological syndrome, they had a story.

Take Narcissus. This guy, the son of a river god and a nymph, was a hunter known for his physical beauty and for spurning those who loved him. His behavior attracted the attention of nemesis, who was supposedly the spirit of retribution for arrogance. She attracted Narcissus to a pool where he saw his own reflection and fell in love with it so completely that he stared at his reflection until he died.

Interestingly, since Donald Trump became the Republican nominee, psychologists have been diagnosing this dude as a narcissist. Well, yes. That’s been obvious for years and ever since the Repubs  elevated him to the status of nominee, it’s gotten worse. Now he speaks endlessly about how the party should all shut up and just let him do his thing – i.,e, alienate everyone.

Personally, I’m fascinated with  Trump’s love affair with himself. It’s gross and twisted and endlessly entertaining. I imagine that nemesis is somewhere in the shadows, laughing her ass off. Keep it up, Trump, and we’ll be witnessing the demise of the party that thrust you onto center stage. I would like to be glib  here and make some snotty remark about how Trump doesn’t have a chance at becoming prez. But there may be just enough hate in this country – and Clinton may have so much political baggage – that psycho Trump is propelled into the White House.

Eight years of W Bush was BAD. Four years of Trump would be far worse. I hear  a province in Nova Scotia is inviting Americans to move there if our nightmare comes to pass. Yeah, it’s colder there than it is in South Florida, but a Trump presidency would be like living in the Arctic, isolated, scared, and alone. And belligerent, of course.

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On Friday, June 10, American singer and songwriter Christine Grimmie, 22, was shot and killed while signing autographs for fans after a concert in Orlando at The Plaza Live.

Early on the morning of Sunday, June 12, a gunman entered The Pulse, a gay night club in Orlando, mowed down 49 people and injured more than 50 others before he was shot and killed by police. It’s the worst mass killing in American history.

On Tuesday, June 14, a two-year-old boy, Lane, was visiting a resort at Disney with his parents, when he was snatched by an alligator and dragged into the water. His father wrestled with the gator in an attempt to save his son, but to no avail. The boy’s body was found yesterday, Wednesday, June 15.

In just five days, Orlando, which calls itself City Beautiful,  has been the site of three tragedies and all of them have made global news. So what is going on?

Cities, like families and communities, have a collective energy that is tested with tragedies like these. By all reports, Orlando’s residents are drawing together in powerful ways – through vigils, blood donations for the victims, prayer. Today, President Obama and VP Biden will meet with families of the victims, the first responders, the physicians and nurses who helped to save lives.

I think this piece  by an Orlando resident describes what we all hope will emerge from this mass killing – and from Obama’s visit.

Now take a look at the rainbow that appeared over the nightclub. The rainbow has been a symbol of gay pride since Harvey Milk. How’s that for a synchro?

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Jane Clifford’s son, Harry Keyworth, is an amazing musician with an original approach. So recently he told Jane that in his  teens that all record hits were written in the same 4 chords and that he would never use them and he hasn’t.

Jane replied that maybe he should reconsider write a hit song, and then write what you want afterwards. Then the next day she came across a You Tube video on Facebook in which the Australian comedy band, Axis of Awesome,  said the very same thing about the  4 chords, then went on to prove it as the video here shows.

And here’s a song by Harry with different chords and a different beat.

Pulse Nightclub

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At 2:00 AM on June 12, a 29-year-old man walked into gay nightclub, Pulse, in Orlando, Florida, and opened fire on the 350 people inside. He was armed with an assault rifle and a Glock, took hostages, and by 5:00 AM, 50 people were dead and 53 were injured. The shooter, Omar Marteen, was killed in a shootout with police. This mass shooting is the worst in U.S. history.

Twenty minutes into the shooting, Marteen called 911 and and claimed an allegiance to ISIS. It is now known that Marteen worked with a security company that has contracts with the federal government and has been  there since 2007.

Our daughter lives in Orlando, not far from Pulse.

So my Sunday morning began with text messages from our friend Melissa, who used to live next door to us in Boynton, saying there had been a mass shooting in Orlando and was Megan okay? I immediately texted Megan, who said she was fine and that all of her friends were too. But one of her friends, Jon, had been working at Pulse last night as a valet. Parking isn’t free and when drivers pull in without paying, Jon always approaches them and tells them it’s five bucks to park. But at 1:30 AM on the morning of June 12, a car pulled into the lot without paying and Jon didn’t approach the driver. That decision may well have saved his life. The driver was Omar Marteen.

A while later, Jon was talking to the security guard outside the club and an alert came over the guard’s radio that there was shooting inside the club. The guard told Jon to run and he raced across the street to Dunkin’ Donuts. The scene was total chaos, with other people fleeing the club and running toward Dunkin’ Donuts, some of them bleeding, all of them terrified. Marteen shot one of those fleeing people in the back and the man fell at Jon’s feet. Jon saw two other people shot as they fled toward Dunkin Donuts.

Megan was with Jon this morning and he broke down, sobbing.

With any mass event, particular an act of such hatred and terror like this one, the aftermath usually reveals stories like Jon’s, synchronicities that saved lives.

Connecting with Coincidence is a book to savor. The author, Bernard Beitman, is a psychiatrist and visiting professor at the University of Virginia in Charlotte, and is the first psychiatrist since Carl Jung to systemize the study of coincidences. The book is filled with stories about synchronicities that people have experienced in a variety of circumstances and under a broad spectrum of conditions.

Beitman talks about synchronicities that occur within families, among friends, with finances, in romance and love, between therapists/counselors and patients. He discusses synchronicities involving our work, spiritual pursuits, when we are grieving, and during periods when our lives are in crisis and transition, when our emotions are intense and our needs are great. Sometimes, the synchronicities are complex, other times they are simple, like the next story.

A sales rep for a drug company and her husband were looking for a home. They had decided to buy and fix up the house they were currently renting, because it seemed to be the easiest thing to do. They drove to the bank and started the process for taking out a loan. On their back home, her husband decided to take a longer route home. Just as he turned down a street, they spotted a woman putting up a For Sale sign in her yard. They stopped and immediately knew the house was just what they wanted, perfect for their family. So they bought it.

“It seems as if the two beams of need connected and drew the buyer and seller together; they picked up information for each other and from each other,” Beitman writes. “We all have this capability, which is increased during high emotion…Getting lost may help you find what you are seeking.”

Some of the stories in the book involve spirit communication, which Beitman refers to as “connections to departed loved ones.” In his introduction, he tells the story about a woman named Saundra who was eating Chinese food at her dad’s place and texted her sister that one of their favorite movies, The Wizard of Oz, was on TV. Her sister replied that she recalled watching that movie with their mom, who was deceased, and that their mother would always fix popcorn. While Saundra was reading her sister’s text message, she popped open a fortune cookie. What did the fortune say? Popcorn.

Saundra, surprised, stunned, texted this development to her sister. “They both felt the presence and comfort of their mother,” Beitman writes.

One of my favorite stories in Beitman’s book is in a chapter entitled, Spirituality and the Full-Circle Experience. A woman finishing the night shift in a factory steps outside with her cup of coffee to greet the rising sun. “The sky is filled with gorgeous hues. She sighs with heartfelt gratitude, breathing in its vibrant beauty.” As she walks back inside the building, she trips on a rock, and her coffee spills over her gray work shirt. “The hot liquid forms the shape of a heart, right over her heart. She laughs and enters more deeply into the magical moment.”

The book also includes advice and tips about how to create emotional climates that are conducive to synchronicity, that encourage them to occur:

“Remember to ask silently or out loud, alone in the woods, or in a field, or by water, to the Something Greater surrounding us. Or that “just right someone” sitting next to you.”

“Hone your intuition by following some of your inner urgings to see what happens. Learn the texture and impression of those urgings that provide better outcomes.”

What I find so extraordinary in Connecting with Coincidence is the genuine beauty of Beitman’s voice. He balances everything – the stories, the tips, the research, his professional and personal observations – with a piercing curiosity about synchronicity. What is it, what causes it, and how can we use it to improve our lives? How can we use it for guidance and confirmation? How can it help us to live more fully?

Not surprisingly, his quest to understand the phenomenon began because of a dramatic experience of his own. At 11 PM on February 26, 1973, when he was 31 years old and living in the Fillmore District of San Francisco, he suddenly found himself bent over the kitchen sink, choking on something. He hadn’t eaten anything. He didn’t have any idea what was in his throat. Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, he could swallow and breathe normally.

“The next day, my birthday, my brother called to tell me our father had died in Wilmington, Delaware, at 2:00 AM Eastern Standard Time. He was three thousand miles and three time zones away; 2:00 AM in Wilmington was 11 PM in California. My father had bled into his throat and choked on his own blood at about the same time I was uncontrollably choking. He died on February 27, my birthday.”

Connecting with Coincidence is, quite simply, a beautiful book.