Synchronicity

Happy Coincidences, Line-Crossings, De Ja Vus (sp? Ha!) . . . whatever one might call those happenings that seem just a little beyond our daily concrete realm have always both fascinated and humbled me. I remember being good-naturedly harrassed by my family when my overly-sensitive, and perhaps awkwardly developing intuitive little self would bring things from the "other realm" to their attention: "Mom, isn't it wierd that I was just reading about a blue car and now there is one driving right in front of us?" or "Dad, I had a feeling you were going to bring home Spaghetti Basketti for supper tonight--I had a dream about their strawberry soda last night." After one too many of these precocious pronouncements, my sister began calling me "psychic"--but while her tone was fairly good-natured, and never exactly mean, I could sense the tinge of weariness my Rational big sis had with her Idealistic, Middle Child, little sis. Today, when my big sis calls me "psychic" it is an endearing short-hand in our conversations--made possible by both of us maturing--her with a little more patience and willingness to play with these ideas, and me with employing a filter that tells me that not everything is mystical. I've even gotten my very sensible husband to play along now and again--our version of this we have termed "envelope moments." These moments are when you know something--in his case usually due to rational common sense, and in mine, a more intuitive gut-feeling--and you are so sure of what you know or are predicting that you want to write it down, seal it in an envelope, and then give it to someone to open when the predicted "knowing" comes true.

Why do I write about this now? Because that beautiful little friend, synchronicity, arrived in our mailbox yesterday, and it was such a beautiful reminder that there is more to this world than we ken.

So, what arrived? Just the latest version of Sports Illustrated. I spent about thirty minutes flipping through it and being reminded of what great writers can be found between the slick photos and ostentatious ads. And then there it was on the last page--a final, one-page column about the Pittsburgh Pirates. The article itself was about what it meant to be a Bucks fan over the past forty years or so since Roberto Clemente died so tragically, and what it means to be a Bucks fan now in 2011 when they are finally winning again and currently sitting atop the National League standings. An interesting read, but it was the first two paragraphs that had me. The first paragraph opened by paying homage to Primanti Bros., a favored Pittsburgh eatery, describing the beauty of PNC Park, and  savoring the smells of beer, pierogies, and french fries on a rainy baseball night. Normally, this would have just struck me as some good, sensory writing, but seeing as though JUST LAST WEEK we were at PNC Park eating Primanti Bros., looking for a pierogie but not finding one(?!), and patiently waiting out two rain delays to see the Bucks play . . .well, let's suffice it to say that it felt like the article had been written just for us.

I showed the article to my family--10-yr-old read it and offered a disaffected, "Cool," 8-yr-old read it and said, "Wow!! It's all just like us, except we where there on a Monday, not a Friday like it said," and my husband gave me a knowing smile of the sort that my sister just to placate me with. For my part, I am keenly aware that the writers and editors of SI simply have their thumb on what is hot in baseball right now, and I am fully aware that our family vacation this summer to Pittsburgh was not necessarily pre-ordained by the vacationbaseball gods--our trip being mostly motivated by the desire to visit my 97-yr-old grandmother. But. The synchronicity of it all isn't something I have to stretch for, instead, it comes softly but firmly as the real ones (not the blue car ones) used to when I was small. It tells me that all is where it should be. My 8-yr-old baseball fanactic would assume it  means that the Bucs are supposed to be winning, while I may not disagree with that, for me, these little glimpses beyond our dailiness, remind me that I am indeed not in charge of this realm--or the next.