the crosswire empire

the phenomenon of coincidence is everywhere all the time, and yet it never gets old for me.

it is one of the purest and sweetest forms of validation that this world has for us. witnessing a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection – mathematically improbable and logically incomprehensible – is like getting to meet your idol in his (or her) underwear. but then you blink and your idol has covered up and is asking you to leave. so, head down, you carry on as you were. but you never forget.

the number of times i have been stopped dead in my tracks by an “impossible” synchronicity of events is too great to just keep my head down any longer. every time it happens, i’m humbled, and it seems naive (and unlikely) to believe that i’m just lucky.

i don’t expect to create this blog, read a few stories and find THE answer. But with more and more accounts of the same forces at work, i hope to shed light on the mechanism (or at least the existence of one) that winds us up like factory toys and sets us down on a certain path. and thinking we chose this path ourselves, we stamp our feet, take a deep breath and hammer on in that direction.

this blog is an ode to the synchronicity that punches us in the face and says, wake up kids, it’s a wonderful life. worst case scenario, it keeps you entertained until you have to go to the bathroom.

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Contributed by Brianne Goodman, my lifelong friend and icon.

I work for an organization called The Virginia Thurston Healing Garden—a center for those affected by cancer. In May, we are providing a gathering to honor Bridget, a 29-year-old woman who died of breast cancer just a few weeks ago. I am in charge of putting together this retreat, although I did not know Bridget at all. An artist from the Danforth Museum in Boston called saying that she heard about The Garden and wanted to offer a beading workshop pro-bono to Garden clients. I asked her to join the grief retreat for Bridget, and she happily accepted.Days later, someone who knew Bridget well came into my office and started telling me about her; she happened to mention that Bridget loved beading and that all who knew her were wearing a strand of pearls to remember her. The following day, a local artist came by stating that she has decided to close her business and asked if The Garden would accept $1,500 worth of donated beads, a significant portion of which were pearls. Alas, you have to wonder if all of this is coincidence or if we carry an influence in the present after we pass away.

Contributed by Brianne Goodman, my lifelong friend and icon.
I work for an organization called The Virginia Thurston Healing Garden—a center for those affected by cancer. In May, we are providing a gathering to honor Bridget, a 29-year-old woman who died of breast cancer just a few weeks ago. I am in charge of putting together this retreat, although I did not know Bridget at all. 

An artist from the Danforth Museum in Boston called saying that she heard about The Garden and wanted to offer a beading workshop pro-bono to Garden clients. I asked her to join the grief retreat for Bridget, and she happily accepted.

Days later, someone who knew Bridget well came into my office and started telling me about her; she happened to mention that Bridget loved beading and that all who knew her were wearing a strand of pearls to remember her. 

The following day, a local artist came by stating that she has decided to close her business and asked if The Garden would accept $1,500 worth of donated beads, a significant portion of which were pearls. 

Alas, you have to wonder if all of this is coincidence or if we carry an influence in the present after we pass away.

Don’t I Know You?

This epic coincidence and photo are contributed by my ally in the barrio and scriptural guru, Kelly Hearn, whose article on the subject has been featured in Mens Journal last month.

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Last year, a story erupted in the news of the deaths of 14 shaman in a region of connected river villages in the northern Peruvian Amazon.  Local police were blaming Mayor Torres of Balsapuerto, claiming he had the shamans assassinated.

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