Following up my last post, more about coincidences. Monday I was back in Jane’s garden on Potrero Hill. A few years ago, a locust tree was cut down near the back of her garden, and ever since locust suckers have been sprouting all over. I spent a good deal of time spading them out, a difficult task given the resilience of the roots, even though she had tried her best to keep them at bay. In the gardens behind and to the sides of hers no such effort had been made, and there were thickets of locust in each of them, with suckers that had attained twenty feet or more. A monoculture in the making, a will to survive writ large.
Yesterday, in a different garden in the Mission on Liberty Street, I encountered more locust suckers. Nowhere near the number in Jane’s garden, however, since the ancestor tree stands tall in the garden below.
Coincidence writ small.
Coincidence writ large is what Jung calls “synchronicity”, the concept of “meaningful coincidence” in which the boundary between inner and outer realities breaks down, the causal and the acausal interpenetrate, and the universe is seen in the light of continuous spontaneous creation.
Here is a quote from Paul Levy:
“Synchronicities are expressions of the dreamlike nature of reality…our night dreams can manifest in our waking life, but also in the sense that, just like with our dreams at night, our inner process is given shape to through the seemingly outer world. In a night dream, the seemingly outer dreamscape is synchronistically reflecting the internal psyche of the dreamer, as the dream is not separate from the inner world but is nothing other than the psyche within apparently externalized.”
The shaman, the magus, the master teacher point toward these epic interactions with their equally epic interpretations, but on my knees sharpshooter in hand assaulting the locust roots I don’t see meaning so much as a kind of rhyme, a metaphor, which is a writer’s way of rhyming in image or meaning.
This morning I got an email from my neighbor telling me he’s decided not to put in an offer on his house and mine, which are being sold in tandem. Last Saturday he told me he was considering putting in a bid at the asking price, and though it was a long shot, had it been accepted my staying here would be secured for the time being. So it’s up in the air.
The bids are coming in. Developers descend. Like locusts? Maybe the universe is making a little joke with a subtle punch line. Just to see if I’m paying attention.
But I doubt it. There’s nobody home, no big jokester.
Last night I had the dream wherein I am unable to contact Richy. He’s gone. There’s no explanation, no way to get in contact. Admittedly, there nothing but truth in that reality, but still, does the subconscious, the tireless metaphor-monger, need to add the feeling of rejection to it? Add insult to injury?
It’s a new morning. The fog is thick, but may burn off. No metaphor.