A Common Thread

 

There is an ancient philosophy that says, all things are connected.  Everything is either directly or indirectly attached to everything else. For example, the tribal people of Indiana suggest there is a special knowing within a skein of yarn that automatically creates a mental connection to kittens.

 

A well-known mystic, living in an apartment in Corleone, suddenly knew that his mailbox, which was several floors down in the entryway, now held news from a forgotten relative.  Upon opening the mysterious envelope, he was pleased to find $9.00 Canadian and a bus transfer.  There was no explanation enclosed.

 

Meanwhile, Nora Stileson, a college student living in the same apartment, knocked on the mystic’s door and asked if she could borrow a bus transfer.  Never before in his life had he had one, until just that day.

 

Clayton Bostic, of Newfoundland, complained to his doctor about a sharp pain he was experiencing in his left foot.  His doctor was surprised, saying that he also had a sharp pain, also in his left foot.  Neither had any explanation as to why.  Both agreed to meet for a pint at the local pub that afternoon.  While sitting on the barstool and resting their foot on the brass rail that ran the length of the bar, both forgot about their foot pain.

FYI,
        The bar tab at the pub came to exactly $9.00 Canadian.

    Some would call these events coincidences, others synchronicities, and still others a sort of cosmic bookkeeping—small balances maintained by the universe to remind us that the ledger is always open.

    Across the Atlantic, in a quiet bookshop in Leeds, a woman named Heloise Weaver felt an inexplicable urge to straighten the display of travel guides. Her hand paused over the section on Canada, though she had never been. As she nudged a slightly crooked spine into alignment, the lights flickered, and a chill breeze rustled the pages. She shivered. Somewhere, she imagined, someone had just come into a small, unexpected amount of Canadian money.

    At that exact moment in Corleone, the mystic was contemplating whether $9.00 Canadian was enough to purchase enlightenment. He decided probably not, but it might be just enough to buy lunch. He tucked the coins into a ceramic dish shaped like a lotus flower, where they clinked in a way that seemed to approve of the decision.

    Nora Stileson returned to her room with the borrowed bus transfer and paused, sensing she had just completed a task assigned to her by forces she didn’t fully understand. She shrugged and pinned the transfer to her bulletin board, next to a photograph of her cat unraveling a sweater. The cat, somewhere in another room, sneezed violently as if to protest being remembered.

    Back in Newfoundland, Clayton and his doctor clinked pint glasses and declared the mysterious foot pain cured, chalking it up to weather, age, or the Newfoundland air having a sense of humor. They moved on to discussing hockey, fishing, and the sudden rise in gulls stealing sandwiches. Behind them, unnoticed, a man at a booth winced as he felt a sharp pain in his left foot. He looked down, saw nothing amiss, and went back to his crossword.

    Thus the universe continued its quiet connections—crossing wires, tugging threads, sending gentle nudges through yarn, mailboxes, bar rails, and travel guides—never announcing its presence, yet constantly making sure that everything brushed up against everything else, one improbable moment at a time.