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.

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.

We were just starting out on a long drive, Los Angeles to San Francisco. My passenger got a call. He reached into his pocket to dig out his phone. He was moving up north to go to school and his mother was on the phone. She told him that he had left behind five pairs of shoes. The only shoes he would have this semester would be the pair on his feet. Just as they were having this conversation I noticed a car ahead of us. The license plate on the car was SHOE FIX. It seemed especially appropriate, as though a random car was notating our conversation, but it wasn’t going to help us fix this particular shoe problem.

We talked a lot on the drive about things we’d have to buy in San Francisco, including a mattress. Every time we talked about mattresses we saw one – strapped to the roof of a car or jigging in the flat bed of a truck. There was even one flopped in the middle of the freeway that we had to swerve around. I had a teacher once who said if you think about yellow Volkswagens then all you’re going to see are yellow Volkswagens. That day we saw that principle in action, only with mattresses. Synchronicity or just a random event or two?  What do you think?

This story is offered by Robert C. Ellal of Mystic, CT.

A heron, bluish-gray and about four feet tall, stalks fish and frogs in the reeds on the other side of the pond behind my house. Deliberately it raises a reed-colored leg and carefully places it into the water a foot ahead of its other leg, barely disturbing the placid surface in the process. After many minutes of standing motionless it will raise the other leg and repeat the process.

Sooner or later a fish or a frog will mistake one of these legs for a reed and the eight-inch beak will pluck it from the water and effortlessly gulp it down its S-shaped neck. Then it will carefully move its other leg…

Patience. Forbearance. The qualities one needs to beat recurrent cancer. To survive my relapse, I would have to emulate the qualities of the crane. I had to realize that every time I beat a relapse, I was one step closer to being cured.

In research labs worldwide Ph.D.’s are working on cancer cures. These men and women are not motivated by financial gain; mere money doesn’t drive them. They work out of enlightened self-interest; they want to help people survive and they want recognition for it. They want to be the ones who find cures; they want their faces on postage stamps, like Jonas Salk.

If you can hang in there long enough, one of these brilliant researchers will find the cure.

That night I dreamt of the Middle East, of arid deserts and lush oasis flourishing with fig trees and green palms. Of Jerusalem, of the massive stone foundation of the Temple and the Wailing Wall, of penitents bowing repeatedly, whispering their prayers until the words no longer made sense and were just a collection of sounds . . . mantras—a true form of meditation.

It was disturbing—I’d never been to the Middle East, knew no one from that region, and had never dreamt of it before. Or since.

The next day a friend handed me a flyer announcing a qigong seminar by Ramel Rones, Dr. Yang’s top disciple, to be held in a nearby Connecticut town. Rami’s bio stated that he was born in Israel and had served in a Special Forces unit before immigrating to America to study various forms of kung fu and qigong with Dr. Yang.

Synchronicity? I thought of the crane—Rami’s kung fu background was based in White Crane kung fu. I thought about my dream of the Middle East, and realized the universe was telling me something. I had to attend the seminar, and convince Rami to teach me the secrets of qigong. Rami was the key.

The Test

Six feet tall, dark and lean, Rami moved with the fluidity of a panther. I had practiced martial arts for years in my teens and early twenties; I knew enough about it to recognize someone who was a superior artist. I read from his bio that he had won gold medals for forms and fighting in North America, Europe and even China.

But the die was cast—I had to become his student to survive. I approached him after the seminar and hit him head on: “I know you’ve won gold medals in competition as a martial artist. Do you want to take on a bigger challenge—and help me beat cancer?”

He looked me in the eye, paused, and said, “Okay—let me show you a few things. You practice them tomorrow, and meet me at 4:30 Monday afternoon in North Stonington. I have a tai chi class that starts at 5:00.”

Only later did he tell me that he didn’t expect me to show up. In true Chinese martial arts tradition, he was testing me to see if I had the resolve to be his student.

I passed the test. I began meeting him regularly. Because I didn’t have the money to pay him for a full hour of instruction, we would have half-hour classes. That wasn’t much time, so he taught me in a traditional Chinese fashion: Show me a few movements and leave it to me to practice them intensively. And I did. Because I wanted to live to see my children grow up.

Being on disability, I couldn’t afford to pay Rami every week. He would tell me: “That’s okay—come a few minutes before the tai chi chuan class and I’ll check your progress.”

That few minutes would expand into a half-hour or more, and he would have a senior student start the class. He didn’t have to do that, but he did. I’ve never forgotten his kindness at a time when the odds were so stacked against me.

This story comes from Jerry Hoke of Torrance, California.

“As a teenager in the 1950s, I went to visit my cousins in Bloomington, Illinois. While walking together one day, we were arguing about the words of a popular song. I said that they were saying, “An Indian named Standing Bear.” My cousin said it was “Standing There.” As we continued along, I noticed a piece of paper on the sidewalk. I picked it up, and it was the sheet music for that very song. There was no further argument. I was right, of course.”

If it were only so easy to solve arguments about Jimi Hendrix singing “‘scuse me while I kiss this guy,” and Three Dog Night singing “there’s the bathroom on the right.” (For the record, Hendrix actually sings “while I kiss the sky” and for Three Dog Night it’s “There’s a bad moon on the rise.” )