Second Sight (37 page)
Patty had come to see me because of an ongoing sense of restlessness and depression. “It's not that my life is terrible,” she said in our first session, almost apologetically. “I have a good job I've been at for over ten years. Being a librarian is okay, but something is definitely missing.”
Secretly, she told me, she'd long had a dream: She wanted to run a small café serving healthy, low-fat, but delicious cooking, using all freshly grown ingredients. She could actually picture the tables, the curtains, the blue vase of flowers on the counter where she would serve tea. Vivid as it was, however, her dream seemed too much to try to realize. Though she was an excellent cook, loved to invite her friends over for festive dinner parties, and was known for her inventive recipes, she had no restaurant training, little money saved, and few business contacts.
Still, Patty's dream wasn't totally unrealistic. If it had been, I would have expressed my concerns. At least I wanted to help her explore. Too many people get stuck in jobs they hate or that give them no real satisfaction. They long to escape but can't see the way. “First,” I advised Patty, “allow for the possibility that your dream can come true. Your belief is essential. Then,” I continued, “look for signs everywhere that can guide you. Pay attention to coincidences—and notice if opportunities present themselves. When you're receptive, they can often be put right in front of you.”
Patty had never approached life like this before. She confessed that she wasn't totally convinced, but, intrigued, she agreed to experiment. This didn't mean, however, that she would just sit back and wait for something to come to her. She began by creating a few special pasta dishes that she persuaded some local delis and restaurants to carry. Though Patty's food was selling well, it was also clear she'd have to expand to make a profit. But how?
In this period, she attended an alumni function honoring a famous graduate of her university. When the event was over, a friend of one of her old college roommates mentioned that he needed a ride to the airport. Since it was on her way, Patty volunteered to give him a lift. As they drove, Patty asked what line of work he was in. “I own a string of restaurants in the Phoenix area,” the man answered. One thing led to another, and Patty began sharing her ideas with him. His interest was immediately piqued. As a result of this conversation she made a new friend who later provided her with the advice, support, and contacts she needed to begin taking steps toward opening her own café.
By training herself to look for synchronicities, Patty didn't miss out on this one. Previously she couldn't even imagine her dream coming true, let alone that someone would be placed in her path to help. Too shy to speak up, she might have let this same situation pass her by. But now, more confident about her own goals and receptive to such “coincidences,” Patty knew how to make the most of this conversation. She was at the right place at the right time. But it was more than that. Patty had created the proper mind-set to recognize a synchronicity as it occurred. This simple shift in attitude allowed Patty to open herself to an incredible opportunity.
As you become more alert, you will encounter a variety of synchronicities in your life with many different purposes. Just as certain synchronous events can highlight circumstances that may benefit you—in relationships, career decisions, or any important choices you're trying to make—others can keep you out of danger. In some instances, instead of being drawn toward something, you may be directed away from it—and later discover it was a situation that could have harmed you. Without effort of your own, factors beyond your control align themselves in your favor. When this happens, it's a blessing, plain and simple, and you need to accept it as such.
I have a patient who at the last minute was asked to help with her eight-year-old daughter's school camping trip. It was to take place about one hundred miles away in Ojai the following day. That Sunday night she and her husband jumped into their Land Rover, left their home in Santa Monica, and headed up Highway 1, along the coast. Early the next morning, January 17, 1994, the big Los Angeles earthquake hit—a walloping 6.8 on the Richter scale. My patient's neighborhood was one of the most devastated. The damage to their home was horrendous: sliding glass doors shattered, a gigantic wooden beam in their bedroom ceiling dangerously split apart, massive cracks gouging practically every wall. Because my patient and her husband were synchronistically called out of town, they escaped almost certain physical injury.
Synchronicity was a favorite topic of the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung. He defined it as “a meaningful coincidence of outer and inner events that are not causally related.” He spoke of a collective unconscious, a universal pool of knowledge, independent of culture, belonging to us all. It's the basis, he believed, of what the ancients call the “sympathy for all things,” and it is my conviction that synchronicity stems from this commonality. We're all swimming in the same waters, riding the same waves, can feel the reverberation of one another's movements.
Many of you view yourselves as isolated islands, but you are more tied to others than you think. Acknowledging this common thread is yet another way for you to awaken and lead a richer life. It can remind you of the global interconnection we all have, helping you to feel less alone, dissolving artificial barriers.
Of course, synchronicities can occur with total strangers, but for me they happen most with people I love—little everyday things that are a touching reflection of our closeness and never cease to warm my heart. We don't even have to live in the same city or talk a lot: Out psychic bond is always there. For example, my friend Jack lives in upstate New York, and we see each other only a few times a year. Recently, he told me, he was on vacation in Boulder, Colorado, browsing in a used-book store, and I suddenly popped into his mind. Nothing particularly unusual—just things we had done together in the past, conversations we'd had. An avid science fiction fan, he went to that section and, still thinking of me, reached for a book that appealed to him—
A Wrinkle in Time,
by Madeleine L'Engle. When he opened to the title page, he was amazed to discover my name—Judi Orloff—handwritten and dated November 1961, when I was ten. As a child, I always made it a point to write my name in all my books in case they ever got lost. When after high school I moved out of my parents' home, I donated stacks of these old books to Goodwill. Somehow, twenty years later, one of them ended up in Boulder and my friend had come upon it.
When Jack mentioned this, tears came to my eyes. The intimacy of this synchronicity, affirming the strength of our friend ship, endeared him to me all the more. How could such an incident have ever been planned? That Jack would be in this particular bookstore at exactly the right time to discover one of my favorite childhood mementos triggered a rush of feelings in me. Most tender, though, was the incontrovertible sense that we are all bound together by such love. If we only look for it, the evidence is everywhere.
The smallest of synchronicities, when you view them from this perspective, have meaning, if only to reinforce the understanding that we are all related to one another in some way. Although some synchronicities may affect you more than others, all have value. Whether or not I fully grasp its import at the time, I have come to see each synchronous moment as possessing rare and perfect harmony—like the accuracy of a bull's-eye, the precision of a hole in one, the impeccable sequence of a royal flush. Synchronicity is a sign that we are psychically attuned, not only to our immediate friends and family, but also to the greater collective.
DÉJÀ VU
My friend Rachel was on her way to be interviewed for a position as a counselor at a residential drug and alcohol treatment center. As she got closer to her destination, a dangerous area of downtown Los Angeles, she found herself in a neighborhood full of crack dealers, hookers, and gangs. Driving along in her Mustang, windows tolled up and the doors locked, she had serious second thoughts about working in such a community. But the instant she made a right-hand turn off Alvarado Street onto Lake, something changed. She could have sworn that she'd been there before. Not only did she seem to recognize the street, but she also knew the exact layout of the ramshackle Victorian house she was about to enter for the first time.
When she walked into the house, it was exactly as she had pictured it. The stairway winding up to the second floor, the sensation of the worn nylon upholstery of the office couch against her skin, the faded pictures on the wall, even the miniature collie in the backyard had a strange familiarity. Suddenly the situation took on a new light. There was a rightness to it, an absolute inevitability that was undeniable.
During the interview with the director of the program, a tough, street-wise woman with soft, brown eyes, Rachel felt that she was with family. This was the beginning of a productive three-year position, setting her career in a totally different and exciting direction. For most of her life, she'd been sequestered in the affluent world of West Los Angeles, but this recovery house with twenty sober addicts and alcoholics, some recently released from prison, became her second home.
Rachel had registered similar instant recognitions before, but they had never felt this compelling. Over the preceding few months she'd been lost, unable to commit herself to jobs that were offered, questioning whether or not she even wanted to stay in L.A. With this new recognition, however, Rachel had been set back on course. A sense of relief washed over her as she knew with certainty that this was where she was meant to be. The deterioration and shabbiness of the physical environment were immediately less important; what mattered were the sense of purpose she felt from the first moment she arrived and the strength of her instinct that she belonged and was safe.
This common form of psychic experience, déjàvu, has happened to many of us. It may be instantaneous or it can creep up on us with time. The expression is from the French for “already seen.” When it occurs, it seems to spark our memory of a place where we've already been, a person we've already met, an act we've already performed. It's a signal to pay special attention to what is taking place, perhaps to receive a specific lesson or to complete what is not yet finished.
There are many theories to explain déjàvu: a memory of a dream, a precognition, a coincidental overlapping of events, or even a past-life experience in which we rekindle ancient alliances. In the final analysis, it doesn't matter how we choose to define it. What matters is that it draws us closer to the mystical. Déjàvu is an offering, an opportunity for additional knowledge about ourselves and others.
If I'm experiencing déjàvu, I immediately stop and take notice. These moments may be overwhelmingly clear, or they can be elusive, come in a quick flash and then be gone. To slow down the experience, I try to observe everything about it. I listen carefully to what's being said, see how it might relate to me, stay aware of what I can learn or how I can contribute positively to the situation. When particular memories, images, or feelings are evoked, I allow them to work through me, watch where they lead. Careful not to overanalyze the situation, I make an extra effort to remain intuitively open during these times and absorb it all.
During my psychiatric residency, I rented an apartment on the boardwalk in Venice. I loved being there. Its funky architecture, the fresh ocean air, the breathtaking sunsets, the rich mix of people—it satisfied all my needs. But when I started a private practice and my income increased, I was advised by my accountant for tax purposes to buy a place. For a long time I resisted the idea, but finally I gave in. My criterion was simple: I just wanted to live by the beach. Easy enough, I thought. But nothing I saw felt right. Frustrated, I was just about ready to give up when a real estate broker called about a new listing. I was tired and braced for disappointment, but halfheartedly I agreed to meet her anyway. The minute I walked into the place, I instantly knew I'd entered my home. It was strikingly familiar and inviting, as if I had actually lived there before. With nearly every nook and corner recognizable, I didn't need anyone to show me around. The physical surroundings were beautiful, but it was more than that. Psychically, it felt like the house and I were being reunited—it was calling out to me, welcoming me back. How could I not trust my response? Two months later I moved in, adjusted to the change easily, though getting cozy in a new home had often taken me a long while, and have happily lived there ever since. Be on the lookout for occurrences of déjàvu in your daily life. They may be easy to miss or overlook. You might have had one and thought, Isn't this interesting or strange, but didn't make any more of it than that. Instances of déjàvu are psychic moments when a door cracks open, an especially critical point that invites you to observe in detail and probe the situation in front of you. Don't let this experience go unremarked. Discuss it with someone you know who would understand so that you can get their input, too. Bringing a déjàvu experience out into the open energizes it, acknowledges its significance, gives you a chance to take a thoughtful look at what it means.
Writing of a trip to Africa, Carl Jung described an unmistakable feeling of déjàvu when he viewed a slim black man leaning on a long spear looking down at his train as it made a turn around a steep cliff on the way to Nairobi. In
Memories, Dreams and Reflections,
he writes, “I had the feeling that I had already experienced this moment and had always known this world which was separated from me only by distance in time. It was as if I were this moment returning to the land of my youth and as if I knew that dark-skinned man who had been waiting for me for five thousand years.” Although this world and this man were something alien to him and outside his present experience, Jung saw the whole thing as perfectly natural, and somehow he wasn't at all surprised by it. He called this a recognition of what was “immemorially known.”
In Western culture, we are brought up to consider anyone who isn't an immediate member of our circle of friends and family as a stranger. Yet at times you meet people you feel you've known for years. The usual formalities of etiquette seem unnecessary. You can talk to them about anything and they understand. You laugh easily together, perhaps share the same jokes. An offhand remark, the tone of their voice, the way they take their coffee, all seem commonplace. It isn't that they remind you of someone else or that their personal qualities are endearing. You relate to them not as strangers, but as people with whom you have shared history; you are members of the same tribe.