Every year I explore the Eastern Sierra, sometimes returning to familiar destinations, but more often venturing into unknown territory. A lifelong friend and adventurer is my companion. We go for the freedom, discovery and photo opportunities. Once, while camped near a remote area east of Mono Lake, I collected sprigs of sage. There is something mystical about the fragrance which inspires images of shamans and another time. My route took me through the desolation of a recently burned pine forest. I examined the orange needles and blackened bark of the forest. I thought about how few people actually came through the area. As I continued back to camp it occurred to me I needed something to tie the sage together. I sniffed the random bundle and, though alone, said aloud “I could use some string” At precisely that moment I turned to see something hanging from the bark of a nearby tree. I stepped closer and was astonished to see a length of string! It was so weird I was simply stunned for a moment. This conjured length of string now wrapped a few bundles of sage for the remainder of our trip. Days later we traveled the road south to Death Valley. While restocking water in a small market we met a local Timbisha Shoshone. During our conversation he said that sage is an important religious plant to his band (and many southwest tribes) I went to our truck and gave him one. He asked where I collected the sage and after I told him, he said his his son lives near Lee Vining, which is the nearest town to our campsite, and…he flies kites. I had no idea what to make of that. This was hundreds of miles away from where we were now standing. The odds were outrageous. I still have one in my home, it still has a light aroma and it still reminds me of the magic of a moment.
Archive for category synchronicity
Stringing it Together
Feb 24
The Musician from Tibet
Feb 24
This story comes from Tabby Biddle of Santa Monica, California.
In 1998, I was walking down the street in Delhi, India to visit a group of Tibetan hunger strikers who wanted to gain attention from the United Nations. On my way I passed by a Tibetan woman holding an 8×10 picture of a young man. She had a sign behind her explaining in English that her son was making a film about Tibetan folk music, had traveled to Tibet to work on it, and was thrown in jail by the Chinese and sentenced to 18 years.
This story touched me immediately. How horrible for this to happen to this young man and his mother. I stopped to talk with her. She did not speak English, but had a piece of paper someone had written for her in English which told me more of the story and asked that I sign a petition for her son’s release. I signed the petition, empathized with her, gave her my best wishes for her son’s release, and said good-bye.
Six months later I was living in London and working for the Free Tibet Campaign. The first assignment given to me was to escort a Tibetan woman who was flying over from India. She was getting visas so she could travel to Europe and tell her story to government leaders. The story she had to tell was about her son who had been unjustly thrown into prison by the Chinese on a trip to Tibet. He was making a film about Tibetan folk music. This was the same woman I met on the street in Delhi just months before.
Five years later I was living in New York and I was attending a concert of Tibetan music. I brought a friend who was new to Tibetan culture and I was telling her about some of my experiences. I told her the story of the Tibetan fellow who was thrown into jail on a visit to Tibet to make a film about Tibetan folk music. Just after I said those words, I opened up my music program and saw his name listed as one of the performers! Oh Wow, he is free! He is out of jail! I was excited to hear him perform and perhaps even talk to him, but the concert started an hour late and I had to leave. I didn’t get to hear or see him that night.
Three months later I was attending a talk at the Tibet House in New York. After the talk, people were mingling. I walked by this man and a big “hello” popped out of my mouth as if this man were an old good friend. After I passed him, I realized I didn’t actually know him. He seemed so familiar. It dawned on me that this was the musician who had been imprisoned. I had only seen one picture of him – and this was the picture his mom was holding of him on the street in Delhi taken of him probably ten years earlier.
We talked. I told him how happy I was that he was free. I told him about meeting his mom (twice). He told me that he was still working on the film. We met the next week and he showed me the work he had done so far.
Three years later I was living in Los Angeles. I received an email from him saying that he was living in Los Angeles for a short while to work on his film. I wondered how he knew I had moved out here. We met for dinner. Although we had only met through two brief encounters, we connected quickly and became fast friends.
I wonder whether karma ties us to certain people, that no matter what, we will meet.
Madame Carr
Feb 24
Going to Rwanda was a magical event. I was most excited to visit an orphanage. I had an instant reaction upon reach the driveway of the home of Madame Carr. The woman who started the orphanage. Tears rolled down my cheek and I didn’t know why. Then I was told her story and felt I was somehow meant to be right where I was joined with this woman’s quest to help the children of Rwanda. She herself had past 18months earlier but I knew her and felt her. I went home and threw a fundraiser for the orphanage where a friend brought a man from Rwanda. Low and behold he was an orphan that grew up at Madame Carr’s. And he had opened his own center for street children with a woman living 3 blocks away from me and Madame’s good friend. Even the picture I choose to put on my invite happened to be a picture of this man as a boy at the orphanage. Now I have a large fundraiser every year to help support his center and he come’s out to speak. Books may be in the works of his and my life.
Mile Markers of Life
Jan 11
Random events, signs and intuition are the mile markers of my life. They clue me in on what is to come, and keep me focused on what is now. Developing my intuitive sense has guided me in indescribable ways. My life is a composition of so many seemingly random, beautifully orchestrated sequences, that I could not begin to list them all in this space. I’ve chosen three to share:
Growing up as an only child, I wanted a sibling. On many occasions, I remember begging my mother, “please have a baby, I want a little brother or sister”. Her constant response was to remind me of the surgical procedure which had rendered her incapable of becoming pregnant. By the time I was ten (after approx. 4 years of begging and pleading), she became pregnant. Doctors said the chance of her getting pregnant, after the medical procedure, was equivalent to winning the lottery. Despite the alleged impossible circumstances, I always knew I would have a sibling. My little sister is a miracle!
During my early twenties, a friend invited me to vacation in the Fort Lauderdale, Miami area. Living in Iowa at the time, I thought a week in the sun would be the perfect getaway. Upon arriving in Miami, something told me that this would be my new home. Before this vacation, I had no plans of leaving my family, friends, and job to relocate anywhere, especially a city I had only visited once. All the same, my intuitive side just knew Miami was the place for me. Within less than one year of my vacation, I was living and working in Miami.
My husband (originally my neighbor…more synchronicity) and I spent our first evening together on January 9th (01/09). We married on September 1st (09/01). My husband’s birthday is November 9th (11/09), and my birthday is October 19th (10/19). When we first moved in together, our apartment security door code was 1090. The numbers 0, 1, and 9 have been a constant theme in our relationship.
The Elizabeth Arden Bag
Nov 30
All the roads had closed. I walked home in a murky twilight, head down. Next day I awoke the happiest I had ever been–and not a sou in the house. Nada. I put The Pretenders on and lay in bed just there–not a single thought. (That alone is strange.) Phone rang. Hello, I sang. “Hi remember the make up artist at the commercial shoot? I’m at the bank and have $100 for you.” Okay. (Years later I asked her what induced her to do that. And she said–with no recollection today–”You know those red dot ticker tape things over the teller windows? They spelled out “Susan needs money’.”) Minutes later I am dancing to Crissy and I have five twenties in my hand. Phone rings. “Hi. Remember Darrell? He’s looking for five people to staff his monthly travel magazine. (I had moved to New York to continue serious writing.) I put stuff in a shopping bag (no purse and it was red like the dress I put on–for an interview? Strange again.) I rounded the corner into Darrell’s office. (The best mag editor in NYC also.) And he looks and says, “Anyone who comes to the interview with an Elizabeth Arden bag gets the job.” Ha!
Two weeks later I was in Paris, all expenses paid and town car on the other end interviewing the Minister of Tourism in Paris, getting to write long and learning from a master. As my mother said, the one thing she wished she could leave her children (I said, “A yacht?”) was more faith. Faith IS it. Not karma, not any of it–plain wonderful faith–it’s what I was showed and how my future was already there–I had to be calm to receive it. What if I had left my apt that morning and run around trying to find all of this? (That job, by the way, lasted over 15 years and paid the rent happily for many moons.)
Sincerely, Susan Moriarty–Still Learning
Sahara Story
Nov 29
I purchased a black and white photograph. Intrigued by its mystery, I researched, investigated and followed its trail to Tunisia, North Africa where the photograph was originally taken. I hitched a ride with a group of International Star Wars fans that were visiting the locations and sets in Tunisia, in order to find the location that the photograph was taken sixty years ago. In the Sahara desert, by accident, I met an elderly Bedouin man that was a witness to the German tank in the photograph. He was eight years old at the time, but recalled the exact spot the photograph was taken and remembered the German soldiers that had burned inside of the tank. My chance meeting with him confirmed that I had found a story worth telling.
