I wish I could trace them – the tracks of my synchronicities.
Sometimes they feel like cross-hairs gradually coming together, to home in on the target, but it’s far more complex than that. There are many strands and they cross and recross, ricocheting off one another in an apparently random mess, until gradually and subtly they begin building up a pattern. Finally, with no clear idea how I got here, I find myself standing at the centre of an amazing piece of sacred geometry and the whole thing is laid out clearly for me to see, like those transit patterns the planets make with each other.
(Is that how astrology fits in? Is it sacred geometry working out at a macro level?? Maybe Pluto or Uranus are not ‘influencing’ us – they’re just making the patterns of the synchronicity working through our lives visible. Sorry: digression.)
So once I’ve had the ‘Aha!’ moment, I can try to work back to how I got there. What was it that pushed me to open this file or buy that book? I think – if I were the kind of person who could create such things – a diagram or flow chart would work better. Alas, all I have at my disposal are strings of words, so they must suffice. The process is not linear, but this attempt to unravel it will be, since that’s the way writing works.
- I publish a post on here which includes this image.
- Someone comments on it and directs me to an interview with Stan Grof.
- I become intrigued and read a book referred to in the interview. At this point the lines of synchronicity are shooting off in multiple directions; one even points at synchronicity!
- Grof intrigues me and, like my grandfather, he is a Czech emigrant.
- The book tells of psychiatric regressions, with patients picking up ancestral stories from their bloodline, which were later authenticated.
- In a quite different part of my life, I am buying a piece of Moldavite for a friend’s birthday. I don’t know why. I simply have a very strong feeling that this person needs Moldavite, now.
- Intrigued again (being intrigued is a very strong indicator for synchronicities at work, I’ve found) I begin researching Moldavite. I discover it comes from the site of a meteor impact, many centuries ago, and is only found at this one place on Earth – in The Czech Republic. ‘There it is again,’ I think. (Repetition/dêja vu is another indicator of synchronicity.)
- While I’m musing on that, I start exploring that country, trying one more time to locate the village my grandfather came from. I’ve tried on many occasions. I knew its name from the postmarks in his stamp collection, which I inherited, but the German language forms of many border towns’ names were eradicated after WWII and I didn’t know the Czech equivalent.
- This time, though, I find it. I’m delighted and make a mental note to explore some more when I have time.
- After an exhausting and rather frustrating day, I decide to have a quiet evening watching TV. I select a film called The Secret Life of Bees, a rather sugary tale of life, death and the civil rights struggles in the American deep south in the sixties.
- Incomprehensibly, I find myself weeping uncontrollably throughout the entire movie. I’m identifying so strongly with every aspect of the story line and characters. It feels personal. It feels as if I’ve been there and experienced that and the pain is still unbearably raw. Yet I haven’t.
- By the end of the film, I’m a red-eyed, snivelling wreck, with a mountain of soggy tissues beside me. ‘It’s just been a hard day,’ I tell myself. I need to go and do something enjoyable.
- I head for the computer and go back to researching the Czech connection.
- I find the village my grandfather came from on Google Map. I wander through its streets and peer across the mountains he grew up in. I even find the post office where my ancestral relatives sent the letters whose stamps now lie, old and yellowing, in his album.
- I read other sites, with histories of the area. They tell how this once prosperous mining town, with rich seams of silver and agate crystals was ravaged by the Thirty Years War, fell into decline, was subsumed by the Austro-Hungarian empire and the native Bohemians persecuted and viciously suppressed. This continued for decades. The young men faced compulsory 10 year military service in their oppressors’ army.
- So that was why my grandfather fled to England! He died when I was a young child. My father was embarrassed to talk about his origins while I was growing up. Bohemia had become part of Czechoslovakia by then and was part of the feared Eastern Bloc during those Cold War days, so Dad pretended he came from Austria.
- Finally, I feel I understand my heritage. I know why the Bees film affected me so deeply. I accept that ancestral memory still travels through my consciousness. I see why dissolving prejudice has been such a huge part of my life.
- I turn away from the computer – and stare straight into the eyes of my grandfather, whose pastel portrait hangs on the living room wall. I pass it a hundred times a day, but at this point I really see it.
- And he is smiling slightly.