"Synchronicity is no more baffling or mysterious than the discontinuities of physics. It is only the ingrained belief in the sovereign power of causality that creates intellectual difficulties and makes it appear unthinkable that causeless events exist or could ever occur...Meaningful coincidences are thinkable as pure chance. But the more they multiply and the greater and more exact the correspondence is, the more their probability sinks and their unthinkability increases, until they can no longer be regarded as pure chances, but, for lack of a causal explanation, have to be thought of as meaningful arrangements...Their 'inexplicability' is not due to the fact that the cause is unknown, but to the fact that a cause is not even thinkable in intellectual terms." (C.G. Jung, The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8,p.441)

In the summer of 1995 I was at the 'deepest' point of my studies to date. I was reading quantum physics, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, psychology, as well as Buddist and Hindu texts, Taoism, the Sufi's, mythology, and so on. I would often disappear for a week at a time, reading entire books in a single sitting, and absorbing the information they contained.

One day, while reading Jung, I came upon a reference to Goethe's 'Faust', so I decided to go and find a copy of the title referenced. I went to the same book store as usual, and quickly realized there were several translations from the original German, and each differed to some degree more or less from one another. Not only that, but the particular translation I sought was not at this store. So I went to another, then another, until I had searched every book store I knew of within a fifty mile radius. I could not find it. Not even at the public libraries. More than three hours later, I was forced to abandon my search. I'd call around the next day, and see if anyone had a copy.

When I got home, I discovered a small package waiting in the mailbox, addressed to myself, from my oldest sister. This was strange, as my sister had never, in my entire life, sent me so much as a birthday card. It wasn't personal, that's just the way she was. She'd call (collect, to be sure) once in a while, but that was it. Well, quite curious to discover the impetus of this ground-breaking event, I opened the package as I was walking through my front door.

Inside was an old paper-bound book. Faust, by Goethe. And it was the exact translation.

smoke rings

Fear v. Discovery

Suggested Reading

Unidentified Flying Metallic Toilet Bowl Seats

Portals to inner and outer spaces

Home

outsiders have graced me
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Reset Nov. 29, 1997.

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