Sometimes when I travel, there aren’t any stunning synchros, nothing that hits me in the forehead and screams, Pay attention. Instead, there’s a wonderful flow of energy that builds day to day, then hour to hour. That energy demands that I put into practice what I’ve read, what I know. It says, Okay, make it practical! That’s how our recent trip to Minnesota was.
Rob was born and grew up in Minneapolis. His mother still lives in the house where he grew up, his sister lives a few miles away, and friends from different periods in his life still live in the city or nearby. In other words, bits of his personal history are scattered across this diverse, vibrant landscape.
In this general neighborhood where he grew up, there are a lot of parks and wilderness preserves. Just a few blocks from Rob’s mother’s house is Golden Valley Park, a forested area where Rob used to hike when he was a kid. During our walk through the forest, we came upon bushes of wild raspberries, not quite ripe enough yet to pluck, and saw a variety of wildlife. Hawks, chipmunks, woodpeckers. Usually, Rob said, there are deer, but not this time. Instead, there were an abundance of wildflowers you just don’t find in Florida.
And there’s a fantastic railroad track you could actually walk along.
On our way back up a steep hill from a pond, Rob was ahead of me and was pushing branches out of the way so I could get through. One of those branches snapped back in my face. “Hey, that hit me in the eyes!” I yelped.
“Sorry.”
And I suddenly realized the world had gone blurry, that when the branch had snapped back, it had knocked off my glasses. I’m nearsighted. Without my glasses, the world thirty to forty feet in front of me is a haze of shapes. I hadn’t packed a spare pair of glasses. My mind instantly slammed into panic mode and coughed up all the worst possible scenarios- that I would spend the rest of the trip in a blurred haze.
As we got down on our hands and knees and patted our way through the underbrush, looking for my glasses, I balked at the fact that I had overlooked packing an extra pair. I’m the kind of traveler who makes packing lists weeks ahead of a trip. I refine and expand my list. I pack and unpack my bag, eliminating this, adding that. By the time I finally leave, I usually have everything I might need in that bag. But I hadn’t planned for this contingency.
We thought the branch might have knocked my glasses off into the underbrush, so we moved into that denser foliage, patting the ground, overturning branches, rocks. It was late afternoon and I worried that if we didn’t find my glasses before the sun went down, we would be back here the next morning, wasting precious vacation time. At one point, Rob stood up, removed his glasses, pulled the branch back and let it hit his glasses to see where they would fall. The trail. “Your glasses have to be here on the trail somewhere,” he said.
More searching. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed. Shadows grew longer. My irritation and panic mounted. I finally rocked back on my heels. “If Dispenza’s right,” I said, referring to Joe Dispenza’s books, “then my glasses are like Schrodinger’s cat. They are both lost and not lost. We have to collapse the wave of probability and bring it into physical reality and find the glasses.”
It sounds great in the abstract, like some sort of head trip, an activity you do during meditation. But I was seriously doubting a discovery. The foliage on this path was dense. The light was waning. The mosquitoes were out and about. I was hungry, impatient, fed up, pissed off. Rob did his little experiment again, with his own glasses, and they fell right smack on the path. “They’ve got to be here,” he said insistently.
So down on our hands and knees we went. I was determined. Resolute. And within thirty seconds, I found my glasses, camouflaged, lenses down in the dirt. “I found them!” I squealed, and plucked them up.
The arms were slightly askew, one lens bore a deep scratch, they fit loosely. But hey, we had stepped on them several times, grinding them farther into the dirt and brush, but they were basically intact.
And yes, we might have found the glasses even if we’d never heard of Joe Dispenza’s books. Even if we’d never heard of quantum physics. We might have found them even if we’d known nothing about waves and particles, intentions and desires. But my desire to find the glasses was so powerful, so overwhelming, that it consumed me. And Rob’s desire was just as strong because otherwise he would spend the entire week listening to me say, I can’t see anything.
So I slipped on my glasses and even though they were loose and the scratch was noticeable, I could SEE. Colors. Shapes. Textures.
At the time, I was so grateful to have found my glasses that I didn’t think much about how the odds were stacked against me. How I could just as easily have been down at that spot in Golden Valley Park the next morning patting through the same underbrush. In retrospect, I am grateful and awed.
Even though this isn’t a synchro in the traditional sense, I think it may be in a broader sense, where reality shifts through some weird quantum thing. And yes, it set the tone for the rest of the trip. Stay tuned…
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About Malaysia Flight 17, off topic here – but maybe not. I found one rather strange synchro. On July 17, 1996 – 18 years to the day that Flight 17 was shot down – TWA Flight 800 crashed shortly after takeoff from JFK, near East Moriches, New York. Speculation abounded that it was shot down. Despite an abundance of testimony from pilots and aviation experts, the National Transportation Safety Board refuses to reopen an investigation into what actually happened.
