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One year, I was both a victim and witness of crimes, which was traumatic. I got little support from the police until I complained, so although the incidents happened in January and February, I wasn’t referred for counselling until late March.

While driving to the counselling appointment, I debated whether to get coffee because I was meeting the counsellor at a library, and they didn’t have coffee facilities there. For some reason, I passed the shop that sold takeaway coffee, thinking, “Oops, I need to buy more Easter eggs!” (I can’t resist Easter eggs, and I’d eaten loads of the ones I’d bought for the kids!)

I parked at the library, where I had been many times before, and asked the receptionist where my meeting was. She said, “We have free tea and coffee today. Help yourself!” My jaw hit the floor. I had never ever been offered a drink there! I was thankful and amazed.

When the counsellor came into the library, she introduced herself and handed me a huge bag full of Easter eggs for my kids. I burst into tears. I must have seemed crazy to the librarians, but I couldn’t believe she had brought the Easter eggs. I was fully intending to buy more after the session!

In the meeting room, I explained the two spooky coincidences. For two hours, the counsellor let me cry out all the emotions I’d had since the crime incidents. I felt so much lighter and was absolutely astonished when she asked what my birthdate was. The hairs stood up on both our necks when we realised we share the same birth date!

I left the meeting feeling someone was watching over me and comforting me. It felt completely magical.

I was having a rough day, emotionally. I decided to talk to my deceased cat about my regrets as I was cleaning my room. I used to play fetch with my cat with my hair elastics. Just after I said I hoped she forgave me, I moved a piece of paper and found a hair elastic.

The next day, I went to an antique store. As I walked in, a cat that was nearly identical to my beloved cat came up to me. She had the same fur colour, same eyes, and the same distinct meow. She was very affectionate and followed me around a bit.

In October 2018, a close friend and I decided to spend our birthdays together. They occur a week apart. We met in my hometown of Albuquerque, and I arrived first. As I drove to the airport to pick up my friend, I had this flash of an idea: We should take a trip to her hometown of Brush, Colorado. She’d hadn’t been back in five decades.

On that trip, we visited important sites from her memory: the farm her parents built, the church where her father was an elder, and her old school. Then we looked for the cemetery where her parents were buried.

When we found it, my friend told a disturbing story about her uncle who’d disappeared from a mental hospital in which he had been kept because of debilitating PTSD from World War ll. There was a marker for him beside her parents’ graves to pay respects, but his body had never been discovered since the day in March 1983 when he walked out of the mental facility.

I was filming my friend as she told the heartbreaking story of her uncle’s fate. As I turned the lens toward his gravestone, I realized with a shock that, as we were standing in the blowing cold listening to the only living person who could remember him, it was his birthday. And not just any birthday: his 100th birthday.

We stood, with our hair flying in the wind trying to process how this event was even possible.

We wished him well wherever his body found its final resting place, and I still marvel that he could have transmitted a message to me, literally out of nowhere, to bring his only niece back to remember him on the 100th anniversary of his birth.

This coincidence is preserved on video.

We built a log cabin on a lake near Birchwood, Wisconsin. The location is related to where my daughter Erin’s college roommate lived. The construction of the cabin had a long and complicated backstory, and while living there, it was the site of many significant coincidences. One example is that Erin’s college roommate became my wife’s doctor.

We sold the cabin in 2018 and now live full-time in Florida. However, we return to the lake for three weeks every year to visit friends and stay at a resort on the lake. It’s fascinating how many coincidences have happened since moving to Florida that are directly related to Birchwood, a community of about 600 people, which is 1,300 miles from our Florida home.

Recently, I was writing the reservation deposit check to the resort we stay at during our annual lake visit. As I wrote the check, I got a text from Erin, who is a nurse in Connecticut. She told me she just had a patient who has relatives who live near Birchwood and the prior patient had the same birthdate as her college roommate, who led us to the lake. This coincidence connected Florida, Connecticut, and Wisconsin in a moment in time.

The long and complicated backstory to these connections started with another moment in time over 50 years ago and has continued to flow accordingly. So really, this coincidence episode was not a surprise. It’s just part of this ongoing adventure in a life filled with these moments in time that are connected across many miles. However, in relation to the size of the universe, we are all standing next to each other.

In 2011, after my friend’s mother died, my friend wanted more uncanny “contacts” with her mother, such as had already occurred. My friend was coming to Palo Alto to spend Christmas with me. As crazy as it seemed, as a gift, I tried to find someone in the area with a reputation as a clairvoyant who could help my friend.

I had heard ads on the radio for Sofia University, where they teach transpersonal psychology. I called Sofia and, embarrassed, asked whether they knew of anyone who might be able to do that. They said a student had recently obtained her PhD from them. She had come to Sofia to become more comfortable with the ability she had had since childhood to perceive dead people around her.

The University contact I spoke with told me that this person did clairvoyant readings and gave me her contact information. I decided to try her out before getting my friend a session with her as a gift. When I had my session, most of what she said didn’t seem that amazing to me. However, at the end, I brought out a very old piece of note paper folded in half. I didn’t let her see the writing on it, which was on the inside.

She held the piece of paper between her hands and went into a trance. She told me that she saw a room with a tall man sitting at a desk in a rolling chair. A cat and a dog sat at his feet. He had curly brown hair, a mustache, and glasses. He was writing and concentrating very seriously, and he had his arm around the piece of paper as if he wouldn’t let her see it. There was something on the wall in front of him with strange markings on it. She said, “This is a love note, and there were more.”

This dumbfounded me, because the note was one that had come down through the family to me from my Swedish-Finnish great grandmother, with neither of the two previous possessors understanding what it said. The top part of the note, a poem of longing in a rural dialect of Finnish, was translated by a Finnish friend of a friend. The bottom part of the note was in a code.

I found a professor of cryptography at the Aalto University in Finland who kindly decoded and translated it for me. It was a poem about parting and memory and was signed. I looked at census records from when my great grandmother lived in the Black Hills and found this man’s name recorded as him having lived there when she did, but I haven’t been able to find a photo of him. I’d love to know whether his physical description matched. I don’t know if the strange marks she saw matched the code.

As for my friend, by Christmastime, she was no longer interested in trying to contact her mother.

When I was in high school in Whittier, California, our psychology class teacher offered projects we could do. I chose to go, with my two best friends, to have a session with famous psychic Josephine Kellerman.

To get a reading, you had to park in front of her house in Yucaipa, California, in the early hours of the morning. She’d take the first 20 people in line and have them wait in her screened-in porch with many cats. There was a framed, signed photo of Ronald Reagan on top of her television — she may have given him psychic readings at the behest of Nancy Reagan after he was shot.

When it was my turn, she took me into a room with a small round table with something round (a crystal ball, I assumed) on top of it, covered by a cloth, so she could see in, but I couldn’t. To get into a trance, she tapped her fingers repeatedly and kind of snorted.

Among other things, she told me that there were five people named William in my family (correct), and that there was someone I used to know from somewhere else who was in a nearby church, was wearing a uniform, had red hair, and was in trouble.

This made no sense to me until a few days later, when I talked on the phone with my older brother who was up at Berkeley. He said that a red-headed friend of his, who had been on the football team with him in the midwest town we had lived in a couple of years before, was AWOL from the Navy and seeking sanctuary at a church in Pasadena (which was near me, in Whittier, California).

When I was a young woman, I had a phone conversation with my mother. I told her I had had a vivid dream in which my aunt and her daughter, my cousin, were sitting in a room that was empty except for the two straight-backed chairs they were sitting in, knee to knee, talking. In my dream, I flew into the room, hovering just above then, and said, “I’m here if you need me.”

Mom said that that was odd because she had just had a phone call from that aunt telling her that that cousin had just been in a car crash with her infant daughter.

Before my father died, we had become very close. I had lived with him for a few years while I was sick and recovering and then while he was declining. My brother and his wife volunteered to have Dad come stay with them to give me a break.

After a few months, I considered taking a 3-week trip to Italy with my partner, but I was concerned that Dad might die while I was away. My younger brother came to visit my brother and his wife and my dad, and they all felt that Dad was doing well, so I went on my trip and my younger brother returned to his home in Hong Kong.

In the last week of my trip, on my birthday, I felt queasy all day — the only day in three weeks that I felt off. Also, on that day, I noticed a plane’s jet trail in the sky and thought, “Hi Dad.” (When I was living with Dad, we’d take a walk every day, and he always pointed out jet trails. I knew that in the future, I’d always think of him when I saw them). That was the only day in three weeks that I noticed a jet trail. Also on that day, my partner started calling me “Sport,” not a common thing to call your beloved, and something Dad had sometimes called me.

On that evening, I was unable to connect my call with my brother and his wife to find out how dad was doing. A couple of days later, we got to Milan and had a good phone connection. My brother told me that Dad had died late on May 21st, my birthday in the US.

That means I was feeling queasy, noticing the jet trail, and hearing my partner call me “Sport” while Dad was still alive back in the US. His death must have happened in the morning of the day after my birthday, Italy time. This means to me it was like something in the ESP category.

Meandering through a store one day, I spotted a paper marbling kit containing paint, pieces of paper, a comb, and an instruction book. Cost was $7.95. Should I buy it? It might be a lot of work! I made the purchase, not realizing it would take me on a journey unlike anything I had experienced.

My kitchen became the studio/laboratory and over three years I created hundreds of specimens/ experiments. What would I do with this raw material? The first attempt at marketing was to sell greeting cards with the designs printed on decal-edged cardstock. The launch of Simply Marbleous began at artisan craft shows.

As it turned out, I had lost my job after eleven years due to the closure of the business. Then opportunity knocked. I could apply to a college program (2-year commitment) or apply for an entrepreneurial business development program. Only one choice: I applied for the entrepreneurial program. I had spent over a decade in Home Fashion sales, which offered a valuable foundation.

The focus of the program was to write a business plan. I now called myself an artisan/surface designer and was on the way to build my own original collection. Just before completing the program, an unexpected email invitation arrived for potential exhibitors in the upcoming interior design show. It took place over four days with both design trade and public in attendance.

Some naysayers thought I was jumping too soon, but I took the leap! It was expensive to participate in a trade show, so I found a partner to share the booth and costs. In retrospect, who knew what would unfold from the chance discovery of this marbling kit? Like fragments of a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces fit into a larger story.

At the show, I met a journalist from a major newspaper who was interviewing artisans for an article. I was included and after the show was invited to exhibit my collection at an upscale design complex in Toronto. So many “pinch me” moments in this story. It was an honor for an emerging artisan to participate in this “Grand Design.”

When I lived in the U.K. in the early 1990s, I worked for a newspaper in the art department. The person whose job I took, Therese, had married an American and moved to South Carolina in the States. I wasn’t able to meet her before she moved overseas.

A few years later, I moved to Charleston, South Carolina, to a condominium complex. I had a neighbor there across the street named Therese. I hadn’t met her, but I had heard she was British. I knocked on the door to introduce myself and explained that I may have worked where she did in the UK. She confirmed that she was the Therese from my old job two years previous. Not only that, she told me that she had lived on the same road, in the same town, where I had lived in the U.K.

We determined that she lived across the street from me in the U.K. — we just didn’t know each other. Our living room windows looked out at each other’s homes in two different countries.

One night, I dreamed I was in a room or space that was in total darkness when suddenly something appeared to swing towards me and pop me in the middle of my forehead. It appeared to be one inch long, with nothing above it and nothing below it. I heard myself ask, “What was that?” Then then the phone rang and woke me.

My husband, who had been downstairs watching television, called to me upstairs and said that my dad was on the phone. I groggily answered the phone, and my dad told me that my young 18-year-old cousin had hung himself in my aunt’s basement.

About a month earlier, my dad and I had visited his sister and other family members, preparing for the funeral of my 10-year-old female cousin, who had been killed at home accidentally two doors down from my aunt, at her daughter’s house. It was at this family gathering that I saw my 18-year-old, red hair, freckle faced, handsome cousin.

He was just a baby the last time I had seen him, and he appeared to be depressed. He told me he had lost most of his friends to gang violence and didn’t know what he was going to do after he graduated from high school. We talked for a few more minutes before my father and I said our goodbyes and left. That was the last time I saw him.

I was working at a festival last summer and began talking to a young Greek girl who was travelling around Europe and briefly visiting the UK. I mentioned having been to Greece and in particular a small island. I once had a Greek boyfriend there whom I had met in France.

It turned out the girl was from that same small island and was related to that boyfriend from 20 years ago! The island is so small that the chance of them being related was very likely, but that she happened to meet me randomly in a field in the UK was not. It blew both our minds — and his when she got back home and told him. We reconnected to reminisce and laugh about it.

One afternoon in the summer of 1980, I was napping and taking advantage of the peace and quiet. During my nap, I dreamed that my eldest brother was knocking on my front door. I opened the door, and he just stood there crying. I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “Momma.” I repeated, “Momma,” and then I woke up to someone knocking on my front door.

It was one of my mother’s friends. My mom lived a couple doors down from me. He said that the ambulance had just taken her to the hospital. He said she had hit her head in the bathroom and was unconscious. I hurried to the hospital and found out my mother had blood clots to the brain and would probably not make it. She was 51 years old.

Although she had a lot of challenges, she lived a full life with her family and passed away quietly in 2010 at the age of 81.

I took my father to the VA Medical Center in Allen Park, Michigan, in May 1990, after he suffered a massive heart attack at his apartment. In June, the doctors diagnosed stage 4 pancreatic cancer and gave him less than 6 months to live.

One night, I dreamed my dad was sitting in a barber shop on a bench between two men, when suddenly a man entered the shop and shot my dad. I saw him fall over onto the man on his right, then I woke up. It was 5:30 a.m., and I had to get up soon to go to school because I was taking nursing classes.

I decided to check in on him on the way home from school. Dad was now in hospice at the VA Medical Center with pancreatic cancer and heart failure. It was July 1990. As I entered the hospital room and saw the empty bed, my heart dropped.

His nurse explained that he had coded at 5:30 that morning and they needed to know if he still wanted to be resuscitated if he were to code again. I found him resting quietly in the intensive care unit.  He decided not to continue resuscitation and passed away quietly on July 16, three days after his 67th birthday on July 13, 1990, 30 minutes after our last visit.

I joked about an old ruin, saying it must have been built by Gandalf. My friend came back in a shock as the ruins had a little sign saying: “Built by Bishop Gundulf.” 🫣

We both were amazed, as we didn’t even know it was a real name outside the film, Lord of the Rings.

In 1977, barely 20 years old, I was hitchhiking home from San Diego on a Sunday morning. Standing at an onramp to the 5 Freeway, I noticed a cardboard sign on the ground that read “Huntington Beach.” Because that was my destination, I picked up the sign and held it up instead of using my thumb as cars entered the freeway.

Within five minutes, a man in his 50s, a tuna fisherman returning home from weeks at sea, stopped his rusty pickup and gave me a ride. He mentioned my sign and that he grew up in Huntington Beach but had long ago moved to Oceanside. Learning I was a surfer, he shared memories of the surfing life in Huntington Beach 20 years earlier. After dropping me off in Oceanside and wishing me luck, I waited at the onramp with my sign, feeling happy about the ride and the stories he shared.

Only a few cars passed before one pulled over. The driver, aged mid-thirties, had seen my sign and told me he didn’t normally pick up hitchhikers but since he had lived in Huntington Beach ten years earlier, he pulled over. As we spoke about Huntington Beach, he asked if I knew Utica Street. I told him I lived at the Corner of Utica and Delaware.

Unbelievably, he told me he had lived on the same block. I tried hard to not believe him, but he had mentioned my small street before I had. Because he was heading home to San Clemente at the time, he dropped me off in San Clemente. By that point in the day, I felt like the entire universe was giving me a ride home.

At the next offramp, after ten minutes, I set my sign down. Just then a car pulled over, the driver curious if I needed a ride. Noticing my Huntington Beach sign as I entered the car, he remarked on the coincidence, revealing he was also headed there, having just moved in with his girlfriend. When I told him where I lived, he seemed shocked to learn that he was moving into the apartment right above mine.

Honestly, I was a little frightened by his story, but I had already experienced so many coincidences, I stayed calm. Then I learned he was telling the truth when he drove straight to my street, parked right in front of my apartment, and his girlfriend, spotting us from the balcony, waved and came down to greet him.

A few days later, they invited me over for pizza. As we ate pizza, his girlfriend told me she was from San Diego, and grew up on Arizona Street — the very street I had been hitchhiking from that Sunday. I kept that sign for decades, telling my story over and over. My wife finally tossed it in a move.

My sister-in-law, Kim, passed away at the young age of 34. A few months later, she appeared to me in a dream. We had a conversation where she whispered in my ear, “Laura is pregnant.” It was a real voice. The funny thing was, Kim was the type of person who could never keep a secret. She would even peek through the wrapping paper of Christmas gifts.

Laura, a mutual friend of ours and of my brother from college, had already had a few miscarriages because she had epilepsy and was a high-risk pregnancy.

The next morning, I called my brother and told him about my dream. He said, “I’ll call Tim and call you right back.” Then he proceeded to call Tim, Laura’s husband. He said “Hey Tim, is Laura by chance pregnant?”

There was some silence on the phone, and he replied, “Yes, but we haven’t told anyone yet, not even our families, as she has not yet reached 12 weeks.” My brother responded, “Kim told Kathy in a dream last night.”

Laura went on to carry that baby to term and that was their first child who arrived safely.

Like the Hansel and Gretel fairytale, my life seems to follow a series of signs like a path of breadcrumbs, which have led me closer to my life’s purpose. One such story is how I met my husband. I was returning from dancing at a conference in New Hampshire when a colleague and I drove past my husband’s grey Victorian and saw someone enter an upstairs room and turn on a light. I received a strong premonition that I would marry that man one day, so I told my friend, who was driving.

Another time, as Assistant Principal, my supervising Principal introduced me to Bob Wilson. I felt an immediately flush and, as he left, I could not disengage from watching him as he walked out to his car. It became obvious to my principal, and he said, “I thought you were seeing someone.”

Three years passed, and I was asked to bring several students into my office and call their parents because they ignored administrative request not to go outside where we had construction vehicles. When I called Sarah’s father into my office, as soon as he began to speak, I felt he was talking to me as a lover would whisper in your ear. The experience was so strong, I had to wash my face as soon as he left.

Later, I stopped into an art gallery in the same town as the school and introduced myself to the owner, Michaela. We chatted and I’d stop in occasionally. One day she said to me, “How come every time you come in here, I think of my friend Bob, and when he comes in, I think of you? I think I’ll make a dinner and introduce the two of you!”

We began dating and married two years later.

As I was listening to Dr. Bernard Beitman talk with another psychologist about coincidences on his podcast, it entered my mind that I had been meaning for the last few days to call a certain retail store about my bedding, which had been on back order for the past 2.5 months.

I paused the podcast to call the store, and the clerk told me she had been trying to reach me for four days using my old landline number. This made me chuckle.

As I was listening to a podcast about coincidences, a coincidence happened, and when I thereafter looked up Dr. Beitman’s website to learn more about him, I saw this opportunity to write about coincidences. So timely, indeed!

Mom passed away in her home, “found down.” An unattended death involves the Police and Medical Examiner. Sadly, Mom and I had been estranged for many years. Being her oldest surviving child, I was legally named the Executrix.

I called the crematorium and gave them Mom’s name only to be told they had no one by that name. I backtracked with the Police and Medical Examiner, confirming I had the correct information. After calling the crematorium again and they assured me again they had no one by that name. Now what?

The lawyer suggested I locate a copy of her birth certificate. After digging endless hours through her personal papers, I found it! Turns out the first name I knew Mom by was her not her actual first name at birth. “Ann” was her birthname, which she had moved to a middle name, using a new first name, the only one I ever knew her by. Mystery solved!

Several years later, I was stopped at a redlight on my way to work, this photo was the license plate on the truck in front of me… on Mother’s Day. I could not stop laughing. Happy Mother’s Day from “Mom”!

I went with a real estate agent to look at a house to buy. I turned to him and pointed to a house across the street saying, “This is the house I’m going to buy.” He thought I had misunderstood and said that was not house we were to look at, telling me the house I had pointed to was not for sale.

Less than five minutes later, a man pulled up in front of the house I had pointed to. Getting out of his car, he dug a small hole in the dirt and proceeded to put up a “For Sale” sign.

Here I am, 27 years later, still living in the house I said I was going to buy, the one that was “not for sale.” To this day, I still have no idea why I had pointed to this house.

I have been diagnosed with a genetic condition called EDS (Ehlers Danlos Syndrome). It is an inability to properly create collagen in the body. As a result, my entire body is frequently affected by sudden and lasting pains, flare-ups and, consequently, emotional instability. I am frequently racked with pain and depression.

This past week, my wife and I took a short vacation to Quebec City. It was gorgeous. We were there during their annual Quebec Winter Festival, so crowds were large and festive. As we walked through throngs of people, I was overcome with pain and had to suddenly sit.

As I sat squeezing back tears and praying for relief or even a modicum of ammunition with which to fight my flare-up, a voice reached me from inside a group of hundreds of people just walking by. It was just a snippet of conversation: “…and especially if you have EDS, don’t worry about it…”

I don’t know who these people were or where they came from, but that single phrase gave me hope — and the strength to get up and fight another day.

I dated a 38-year-old Russian woman for two years. We had everything in common, but it didn’t work out. She left me on Sunday, July 8, 2018. She died on Sunday, September 8, 2019, in a small plane crash in Marathon, Florida. She was an avid Marathon runner.

The NTSB report revealed the plane crashed in 8 feet of water, had a compass heading of 8, the runway was 5008 feet long, and the address was 8800. In her room was her favorite picture of rustic and colorful Russian windows. Inexplicably, there was a large “8” painted on one of the windows. A year later, the NTSB released her iPhone. It seemed hopelessly damaged, but I had it fixed and one of the photos showed her hand over a ruler with the 8-inch mark between her fingers.

A year after the accident, I took a plane ride over the airfield and asked the pilot, a man named Sol, to fly a figure 8 over the airfield in her honor. A few months later near my home, a large black dog attacked my dog from across the street. Its owner came running over. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She bore a striking resemblance to my late girlfriend. The same height and same age; she even had the same pageboy haircut with a patch of jade green, which my ex wore ten years earlier.

I had to show her the picture. She was shocked and agreed it was a striking resemblance. I didn’t tell her anything about her death. When I asked where she lived, she said “across the street.” She must have been lying, because I had never seen her before, and I never saw her since. I asked her the name of her dog. She said “Sol.”

A day later, a letter arrived addressed to my ex-girlfriend. It stated the sender wanted to return a beautiful cylindrical black lacquer box with gold paint. He said he had bought it from her 22 years ago and he was in ill health and wanted to return it to the artist who created it. He had paid $2,000 for it 22 years ago, and it was worth much more. He felt that she needed it back.

I called him and told him she had died two years ago. He said he wanted me to have it, that it was meant to be. When I received it, I was stunned by the detail and workmanship. It was an unusual piece, cylindrical, like a funeral urn. The box was entitled “The Tale of the Dead Princess,” based on the fairy tale of the Sleeping Beauty. I had been looking for a proper urn for her ashes, which her mother had given to me.

My coincidences are most often with words. I will hear a word (usually a word that is not common), and then see it in print within about five seconds. Or vice-versa.

For example, I was walking in the gym parking lot half-listening to a motivational program. I thought, “I want to buy an SUV, so I should start looking at SUVs to see what various models look like.” At that moment, I heard the word “Odyssey” from my audio program and within the next five seconds, the first SUV I saw said “Odyssey.”

Another time, I saw a billboard that said “clown,” and a few seconds later heard the same word on the radio. This has happened many times in the past few years. So much so that it doesn’t even surprise me anymore. Unusual, as it had never happened the first 45 years of my life. I suspect it may be related to the fact that I started meditating.

When I was 12, we went on a two-week vacation to Delaware. For the first time, we left our orange cat named Mango, and a neighbor come to care for him. When we returned home, he had sprayed in our house, so we knew he was scared. We were all sitting there when Mango formed words out of his meows saying, “I’m glad you’re back”.

We couldn’t believe our ears! Since then, I have experienced so many more.

When I was 15, I started having psychic dreams and daydreams that would end up happening in my life. I’ve had different ones ranging from dreaming about a cat and then waking up and having the cat from dream appear to dreaming about a boyfriend who was unfaithful before the event took place in my life.

I have also done my own experiments by asking my spirit guides/universe to send me signs, and a lot of times I get them instantly. About 8 years ago, I asked my guides for a sign in pictures I was going to take of the sky. Then I took the pictures. I didn’t see anything in the sky when I was taking them, but when I looked at the pictures, there was a very clear dragon cloud that I have been told was a dragon spirit.

I have been studying synchronization and psychic phenomenon for the last 23 years. It is fascinating and definitely real.

Last summer, my friend was diagnosed with metastasized cancer, so I started doing healing prayers/ceremonies for her. We both started experiencing strange synchronicities. I think the stronger you feel love in your heart and the more you believe in your authenticity, the more you experience synchronicities/magic. There is magic everywhere if we choose to see it.

Today, 12 February 2024, while seated at Roggenart Cafe in Towson, Maryland with my friend Ron, an 80-year-old Vietnam veteran, discussing Dr. Bernard Beitman’s project on coincidences, among other subjects, I noticed a framed pastel portrait for sale hanging on the wall right next to me at my booth.

It was a fine, full-length pastel portrait of a small boy. I suddenly noticed the name of the artist: Darbie Beitman. I checked the spelling. It’s the same name! Then I looked up the prevalence of this name in America. Only 440 people bear this surname in America. This makes the odds 440 to 330 million, or almost a million to one, of encountering that last name.

Add to this the fact that I had just mentioned his name earlier, and I was seated right next to a portrait painted by someone with that last name (who is probably related to Mr. Beitman), and we have an extraordinary coincidence!

In January 2021, I finally got motivated to go through my father’s memorabilia. He had died in 2013. The first item I grabbed was a photo of his 1940s Catholic school class with names of the kids written on the back, including his best friend Max.

My son was going to a Catholic school that year as a third-grader so he could attend school face to face, and he didn’t like it. My aunt had just told me that my Dad also hated third grade because of a mean nun. In my hand was a photo of that nun! That alone was a coincidence. My dad also had not wanted my son to attend that Catholic School because kids played in the parking lot, which he found depressing.

In the diary my dad had kept for 20 years, many of the entries featured Max. Max’s daughter Michelle, my dad’s god daughter, had been tragically killed by a drunk driver in front of her house and in front of her children.

I thought my dad would be upset that we ended up at that Catholic school and that it was permanent. But I was reminded that he was a godfather and had some Catholic in him.

The next day, walking the dog, I spotted a card on the ground four houses from mine. It was a battered note to my son from his godfather, Brian. The note said “Congratulations on your first communion. May you continue to walk with Jesus.” My son’s first communion was five months before!

Brian and I talked about logical reasons why the card would have ended up there but agreed that my dad was talking to me and telling me it was okay. My son ended back at his beloved elementary school the next year.

One day, I was working at #18 on 18th Avenue, ZIP code 94118, in San Francisco. When I took lunch, I parked across the street from where I was working and began reading my book.

The character in the book was on his way to question a man whose wife had been murdered recently. The place he was headed turned out to be directly across the street from where I was sitting.

Another coincidence I had with the author was that the main character lived two blocks away on the same side of the street.

I met my husband through my best friend in high school. He had moved to Georgia from New Jersey and started to work at my old high school where my best friend was a teacher.

We met at a bar one night when he decided to go out with my friend in a large group. We ended up hitting it off and started dating. One night we went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. I decided to ask him his surname because I only knew his first name, Scott.

He responded, “Cervino.” I looked at him with complete amazement. I said, “spell it.” I thought for sure it would be spelled “Servino”, but he started with a “C”. My jaw dropped to the table. He didn’t know how to respond.

I told him that two weeks previously I had returned from a little mountain village in the North of Italy called Cervinia at the base of Monte Cervino where I had been a nanny for four months in the region of Aosta where my father was born.

I knew at that moment I would marry him. We have been married now for over 26 years. Forever grateful to God for his whispers of knowing.

I was chatting with a friend online. He was at his wit’s end with his work. He is a video creator of God-like topics. He told me he just couldn’t go on, and if he didn’t get some kind of sign, he was going to quit.

As we were texting, I encouraged him to continue onwards. Then I looked outside and saw a strange cloud that I knew was going to turn into an angel or something special. It formed the shape of Jesus. I sent him the photo as we were chatting and told him, “This is your sign.” He wanted to see Jesus, and here he was in front of me.

I get photos every day of angels in the sky and have strong connections to birds, feathers, the angels, and Jesus and God. I go to church every day and pray the rosary (only in the last few months), but I KNOW the only way I see what I see is through God.

And yes, asking and having strong intention and being open are the ways in which you can experience everything! God, who created the Universe, can give you so many gifts, but you have to be able to understand them. I have many more stories.

See full image here.

About eight years ago, I noticed I was seeing the number 57 a lot. I didn’t think much about it at first, but it started to go into overload. I was seeing it everywhere.

Then one day I was hitting golf balls and hit an errant shot into a wooded area. I went to find it, and it was right in the area where my shot went, so I got it and walked out. But to my surprise, it was not my ball but a brand new golf ball — with the number 57 on it.

My other synchronicity is seeing two of the exact same car in close proximity to each other. To this point, I have seen about thirty of these occurrences.

A friend of mine experiences coincidences all the time, so much so that she felt strange and different as a child. I don’t have coincidences all the time but have had some notable ones.

I was sitting next to “K,” the mother-in-law of my son’s best friend. When the conversation turned to names, my wife said, like Harry S. Truman, I didn’t have a middle name, only a letter. K said she only had a letter too.

Then the conversation turned to origins. K said she is 75% Swede. I said, “me too.” Then K said she is 25% Irish Catholic. Again, “me too.” Then the conversation turned to handedness. I said I was the only left-handed person in the family until my third granddaughter came along. Remarkably, K said she is the only right-handed person in her family.

Now I understand my coincidence friend a little better.

I’ve had a recurring, evolving dream for perhaps ten or fifteen years. It began in the country on a grassy green hill. I walked around picking up scraps of lumber to make a small shelter. In a subsequent dream, a rather long tunnel is built from the shelter to an opening on an eroded dirt wall. At places, the tunnel became narrow and I struggled to get through.

The next dream gave me more and better lumber. The resulting structure was more like a large barn with the inside being a large hole in the dirt. Light shown through the gaps in the lumber and the roof leaked. A large canvas covered areas lacking lumber. A following dream added a main and second story floors. The basement was cleaned up with pictures hanging on smooth dirt walls. In the direction of the tunnel, it became dark and the walls narrowed.

The next dream showed long rows of shelves, floor to ceiling. It was like a large warehouse full of goods. There are semi-trailer trucks line up outside. Of course, there is much going on in each of these dreams, people, bad weather, sunshine, much crawling and walking around. One more dream added manufacturing and a gas station. I lived in one corner of the building.

I was a professor of physics, loved my work, and never planned to retire. But there came a feeling that “it’s time” to retire. On the day I had my retirement party, the dream returned that night. The building shifted, leaned and collapsed to the ground. Guitar became my passion in retirement. After some 4,000 hours of playing, you become quite good. The dream had spoken.

Took my kiddo to their Intro to Acting class yesterday. At the class, they received a voucher for a ticket to a musical the theater group is putting on in March. I posted about it on my Facebook page.

A friend of mine from my former job in another state messaged me that their nephew is the lead in that specific production! Didn’t even know my friend had relatives in this area, and now we may be getting together for lunch when they next come visit.

Late one Sunday night, Charles de Gaul Airport was empty. The only other person sat at the information desk. I don’t speak French. She explained in English how to get to Central Paris by train.

She made change for a ticket. Everything worked as explained, and I found myself sitting in a dark empty train. Now trepidation overwhelmed me about where to exit, finding the hotel, and my meeting the next day.

The train stops, still in the countryside. Another person gets on and sits down across from me. “Bruce,” he says. “Didier,” I reply.

What a strange coincidence. I met him at an international meeting in Boston. He toured the USA with another Frenchman and even stayed with me several days. He had no connection to my meeting in Paris, but I had an excellent guide to my hotel.

Many times, I have replayed events that felt like a cosmic message, a warning, of a life-altering event. My only child, Paul, a 26-year-old recent university graduate, was the joy of my life. I was never particularly overprotective, always encouraging him to go out and find his place in the world.

Yet having raised him as a single Mom, I worried about his welfare and safety. Paul and I were close, sharing music, books, and culture. He had a serious interest in music and once shared a song entitled “Black Eyed Dog” by Nick Drake. The lyrics, he explained, were about death.

Paul had close, lifelong friends, all college-bound after high school. He attended college out of state, so reunions during school breaks were met joyfully by the group. I sometimes complained that no sooner had he walked through the door than his friends would arrive to take him off.

A trip to Aspen, Colorado was planned where the other men had gone before, but Paul, being out of state, hadn’t been. I later learned Paul was ambiguous about going. He did share with me that he was troubled about how his friends had changed and felt the need to distance himself.

One morning, I walked past a cemetery and noticed a large headstone. On top in large letters was the name Paul. A chill passed over me, then seemed to pass. Or so I thought.

Having lived out of state, Paul’s driver’s license needed renewal, so I scheduled a DMV appointment for him. He decided to get up from where he had been sitting to retrieve the driver’s manual from the car to refresh for the test. Once he stood up, a woman crashed into the very spot he had been sitting, seriously injuring all sitting there. My son’s words were, “Well, guess it was not my time to die.”

This all happened within a very short period, but my son died in a plane crash with all his friends in 2001 while attempting to land in Aspen. Were those coincidences? I have wondered.

In 2016, a friend signed up for online dating. I reluctantly signed up also.

Before I signed up, I had a dream that one of my male friends was teaching a martial arts class, attended by two students. The first student was the ex-husband of one of my best friends who had passed away in 2001. The second student was a former student of mine from 2001 — about age 9 when I knew him — scrappy kid with a good heart.

In the dream, my student was grown and had a sweet, handsome face. The three men in the dream were completely unrelated in real life. I woke and grabbed my phone to write it all down because I knew there was a message.

Then it hit me. My dead best friend’s husband and that former student? They both had the same name. Jeffrey. So, I commenced telling my friends to take notes: The next man I am with is named Jeffrey.

Later, I started emailing with a nice man who seemed new to online dating. We chatted for a while, but he hadn’t shared his name. He asked me out and sent me his Facebook profile. I recognized his name right away!

I knew this man. We had attended the same church in high school — two states away. I hadn’t recognized him in his online dating photos, and all I remembered of him was an intense phone conversation in 1979. His Facebook profile revealed a sweet handsome grown-up face and filled in the gaps of the 37 years in between.

He had lived down the road from me the past 20 years. Our children had attended the same martial arts class. So, we met and — against all my reservations — dated and eventually married. And of course, you know his name.

In 2008, an old friend, G, called to say she would be near my town one weekend. Friends of hers from Colorado were renting a beach house nearby, and G wanted to come to my house and visit afterward. At the time, I lived in a carriage house. The main house in front is a bigger home with five bedrooms. My landlord at the time was like family. 

I asked my landlord if she had a guest room available for G. Landlord said she would try, but she also was expecting her cousin that weekend. Her cousin was renting a house down at the beach….you know where this is going.

G arrived at our house and confirmed that she had just spent the week with her friends from Colorado. Her friends were coming to our town to visit with their cousin. We tried to gently let G know that this was the cousin’s house. Big surprise.

A decade later, in 2018, my husband and I went to a concert here in town. During intermission as the lights came up, a familiar looking woman stood up in the center of my visual field. I said to my husband that she looked a lot like my old friend G, who lives three states away, and isn’t it funny how everyone has a twin somewhere. The woman looked at me and yelled my name. It was G. 

She ran up to me and we had a quick chat. She told me that on the way to the show she had been telling her friends about the last time she was in my city, and how weird it was that I knew her friend’s cousin, etc. Then the lights come on at the show, and I’m standing right there.

Kind of coincidence has happened before I knew about coincidences. I  thought to myself that I had a guardian angel that was making my lucky events happen. They were trivial, and I didn’t think about the lucky impulse that seemed to have caused me to go to the place where I needed to be.

I sewed a lot and often had to look for the exact color ribbon for a belt or trim without finding it. But one day on the way home, I saw a yard sale sign that I decided to go to. The decision was made by a part of me that has led me many times to what I am looking for.

The first thing I saw was a belt in a box of belts that I ordinarily would not have looked at. But the belt was partly hanging out of the box, and I was amazed because the color was so unusual. Trivial, but a really good example of an apparent foresight.

In the summer of 1966, I was working in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and my mother had informed me that some relatives would be taking a vacation and would be passing through Colorado Springs in a few weeks. They would be leaving their hometown, where the drive to Colorado Springs is approximately 1,000 miles.

One day leaving work, I took my regular route home, whereby I would drive approximately six miles, then enter the Interstate Highway, drive another mile and exit the highway. Driving home this day, I entered the highway and had driven a few minutes when I looked to my left and saw that the car next to me were my relatives passing through Colorado Springs on their trip.

We recognized each other and exited the highway to exchange greetings. My first thought was, “What a coincidence that my relatives after driving 1,000 miles and I driving six miles could meet each other on the Interstate Highway at that particular moment.” Just a delay of one second while driving and we would have missed each other completely.

With our modern technology of communicating with cell phones and using GPS to determine location status, it would be impossible to duplicate this encounter. It would require the coordination between myself and my relatives and the coordination of all the travelers that would be driving along the same routes.

However, if body souls existed and could communicate in some way with each other, then meeting someone along the highway at a particular moment would be possible to do, and it wouldn’t be a coincidence. It would be a planned coordination encounter.

I had a dream in which my friend ended his life. Upon awakening, I decided to go lay eyes on him. Unbeknownst to me, he had been very sick and was awaiting bloodwork results.

While talking to him, I noticed his eyes were yellow. I notified his spouse about his eyes and asked her to ensure that she sees the bloodwork results, especially the liver function. The results came back that evening. Come to find out, there was cause for immediate hospitalization, and this would put him at the top of the liver transplant list due to liver cirrhosis (a brand new diagnosis). He spent half of the next month in the hospital.

With his history of suicidal thoughts and alcohol use, I suspect that had I not warned them of the test results and been able to hug my friend and tell him I loved him, he may have attempted suicide within a day or so of my dream.

Two months later, he’s hanging in there, and is now sober, unable to work and waiting the six months before he is allowed to get on the transplant list.  But he’s alive.

On a walk with my friend Lorita, we ran into her former neighbor who told her his daughter had passed from cancer just after graduating from high school, when her whole life was ahead of her. Lorita asked him, “Do you feel better knowing she’s in a better place?” He said he believed she is in the ground and that’s it.

I drove Lorita home and we decided to pray for her friend before getting out of the car. I told her I prayed God would give him a sign his daughter was in fact “in a better place.” Just as I said that a lady jogged by. Lorita said, “Oh my God, she looks just like his daughter who passed and even has the same long strawberry blonde hair.”

As she said that, the jogger turned around, knocked on my window, and said she was reluctant to ask but felt Jesus was telling her to ask us if we needed help with prayer. We explained what had just happened, then she got in the back seat and started praying out loud. We chatted for bit, then the jogger left.

I told Lorita that the woman’s prayer had sounded strange. Lorita said the woman was praying in tongues. I said that was weird to me, but Lorita said it was meaningful to her. She explained that her brother is a minister and she had asked him about tongues. He told her that if she was meant to know about it, it would come to her.

Just a very interesting Sunday morning. I felt our prayers were heard. I wish Lorita could run into that man again to see if he experienced a shift in his perception. This was probably 25 years ago, but I’ve never forgotten it.

I am Polish, living in Germany, and had never planned to visit the U.S. — but I changed my mind last year.

Since 2018, I have been experiencing synchronicities with San Francisco. Everywhere I went, I heard people talking about San Francisco, and everywhere I saw the Golden Gate Bridge. “That’s just a common symbol,” I thought. But then the coincidences got weird.

One day at school (I’m a primary school teacher), a boy said to me, “Can you tell me what’s on my T-shirt?” Well, there was Golden Gate Bridge and the words “Explore California.” He could have asked anybody, but he asked me, and he was wearing that T-shirt that day. But I still couldn’t believe in that.

Then one day I went shopping, and in the shop was a shelf of free books. They were old, boring books, so I wasn’t interested at all. Then I had this strange, strong feeling and heard an inner voice, “Go there.” So I looked, and there was a new city guide of San Francisco.

After so many coincidences, I decided to buy a ticket to San Francisco. And it was best travel of my life. I spent 10 great days there, met gentle people, and had fun.

This is a synchronicity story that occurred during a big transition in my life. I was in the process of changing jobs after three years of searching for a new position. I had been frustrated but finally found the right job.

At this time, I had a lot of synchronicities and had started reading a book about synchronicity by Elisabeth Mardoff, a German author of the book of Das Kein Zufall Sein (That Can’t Be a Coincidence). She wrote that when experiencing big life transitions, she sees green scarab beetles, just like in the famous story of C.G. Jung.

Because I couldn’t quite believe in synchronicity, I said to myself, “If I see a scarab beetle, I will believe. ”

One week later, I was sitting on the terrace with my husband and my neighbor (a psychologist). My husband said to me, “What’s that crawling your way?’’ Well, it was a green scarab beetle, the same as in the story of C.G. Jung.

It’s been five years, and I haven’t seen a scarab beetle since then. It changed me and made me a believer.

My heart still flutters!

In August 2023, I was talking to my husband extensively about a dear friend/roommate (I’ll call her “N”) from Japan whom I hadn’t seen since Bill Clinton vacated the White House. I was thinking about her, hoping her life had turned out well since she left for Japan to marry a man she never met through a prearranged marriage. N did not want to go back to Japan, but it was her duty to honor her family. We were both scared for her and where her future may lead.

In September 2023, I received a “Friend Request” and it was N! I could not believe it!!! I sprinted in place, yelled with tears blinding me. N said she joined Facebook to find me! From Japan!

After all these years, I thought she disappeared, but I never stopped thinking about her. To make my heart beat even faster, she did find true love within her prearranged marriage. What more could a girl ask for? My husband didn’t seem nearly as blown away as I was, especially since I talked so much about her to him for the first time in August. I received the “what’s the big deal?” look from him and my dogs.

Coincidences freak me out in a good way and occur quite frequently. The fact that these unordinary, non-scheduled occurrences present themselves to me and I recognize them makes me feel like I’m getting life’s little happy shocks.

My father was killed in an accident when I was a child. I’ve missed him all my life.

Fast forward to the present, I ask the universe for a sign from my father to mark the anniversary of his death. Then I remonstrate myself: I clearly need to get a grip, this being 62 years after his death. Yes, but in other dimensions does time even exist?

That evening on TV, the first choice Netflix presents is “All the Light You Cannot See”, a series based on the book. I had read it previously and been struck by the resonances of times, places and names with my father’s life.

I sit down to watch with my husband. Suddenly, we become aware of choral sacred music playing in the background. Strange accompaniment to the film… no, in fact the radio has come on spontaneously. That’s odd, we think as we turn it off.

The following morning, I come to my senses: that’s more than odd, is it the sign I requested? Especially as it coincides with the theme of the film (WW2) where a daughter is trying to communicate her love to her father who is missing, by radio.

I decide to journal the synchronicities this incident has revealed to me. As I’m writing, the radio switches itself on again and plays a requiem! Never before has my radio turned itself on and off. I feel loved and held by my father more than at any time in my life.

The next day, the radio randomly plays a programme about fathers and daughters. The person interviewed is a musician who has a deep spiritual relationship with her father who was killed before she was born.

What have I learned from this experience? My father is reaching out to me, loving me with his presence. Love is eternal and the highest form of consciousness, and we are all connected in one vast Interbeing!

I just watched Dr. Bernard Beitman on the Next Level Soul podcast, where he told the story of his father passing on his birthday, February 27. This reminded me of my own February 27 story.

My brother and I were caring for our father during his final days due to cancer. The visiting hospice service offered spiritual support through a religious minister. Our father always claimed to be agnostic and declined the spiritual support, but they came anyway in case he changed his mind. Our father used that visit to talk about his passion for the horseraces.

I would sit with our father every day and listen to his stories and confessions. One confession our father shared with me was about the falling out he had with our Uncle Richard, which led to a lifelong estrangement. He confessed that he actually always liked our Uncle Richard.

On my father’s final day, as I was sitting with him witnessing him suffering in pain, I prayed for someone to come get him. I called out to our mom who had already passed and to our Uncle Richard who had also passed. Our father died that night, February 27, 2015.

At that time, I did not know the date our uncle had passed away. I found out months later that Uncle Richard passed away on February 27, 2014 — exactly one year earlier to the date.

Six months ago, at age 41, I started a new career despite many challenges. I’m a research assistant. Part of my job is to conduct interviews with participants, another is to screen patients waiting to be seen at city clinics. Our participant base is a vulnerable population, opioid users who use and live in Baltimore City. Not the population I set out to work with, but I had a gut feeling I should apply.

Completely unrelated to my work, a gruesome event occurred in my family’s history. In 1914, my great-grandfather traveled to where my great-grandmother had taken refuge (from him), killed her, then himself when my grandfather was three and present in the room. I heard about it when I was 19. My uncle had discovered the event.

I found the news article myself years later. It lists my great-grandfather’s place of work, residence, and the crime scene, so I made a map a couple of weeks ago. When I’m screening at the clinic, I’m a two-minute drive from the crime. For six months, driving to work, I turn right at the pharmacy where he worked. He lived around the corner, a four-minute walk. My office is between these places. The article accuses him of being a “dope fiend” — and I’m working in the same neighborhoods, helping addicts.

Next morning, I called a participant for their appointment, ordered a Lyft, and they were picked up in the neighborhood the article mentions as place the rest of his family lived. But my appointment didn’t live there, just happened to be there. Later, I realized my first place as an adult (age 18) was four minutes away and off the same road where my great-grandparents are buried. Also, my great grandfather and I share the same birth month. So much coincidence.

One morning, I was thinking about my father. His first name was Hans, but he went by his middle name, Otto.

Meeting my brother on my way into the office that day made me think of my father even more. I remembered him telling me to take care of my teeth and see a dentist regularly to avoid gum ailments as I waited to see my brother, who then reported this very ailment.

I often remember how my father thanked God every morning for a beautiful day in his prayers. We all knew how tough his work could be as a mason, compounded by harsh weather and different personality types encountered in New Jersey construction. His attitude of gratitude colors my view of life, and I think about him regularly.

While eating lunch that day, I thought to myself, “My middle name is Hans.” Riding the elevator down at the end of that workday, I introduced myself to a new acquaintance. Having returned to that location just a month earlier, I’d never seen him before.

“My name is Hans,” he told me.

“My middle name is Hans!” I replied.

Weird coincidences have been happening since August last year when I made the decision to make everything reality that I once visualised in my mind. I felt that in this way I can make peace between my heart and my mind, which were in conflict most of my life.

Then weird coincidences start happening on a weekly basis, sometimes more than once per week. And for me, repetitive coincidences are not merely chance.

The most awkward one was in February when I visualised that I should go to the grocery shop at 1:00am, but at the same time was feeling lazy. However, some force was pushing me, reminding me that I promised to make real anything that crossed my mind.

Once I got to the till, I told to myself to apologise to the cashier. I used to bully her when I was around 12 (I’m now 38). I still remember one time she started crying, and it made me feel so uncomfortable because I was not enjoying bullying her. I did it because I was bullied by many people myself, and I assume  I wanted to feel how is to be on the other side and be the bully.

This happened in Romania where I grew up while I was on holiday that week. I live in England currently. I still refuse to accept it was merely chance. How did I feel an urge in the middle of the night to go to a grocery shop, unaware who works there, and then demanding myself to apologise to someone I hurt over 25 years ago?

A man of synchronicity. His life is like working on a computer keyboard. Only on his “keyboard” there are not keys, but everything he encounters. And especially everything that surprises him as something new.

Yesterday, I was talking on the phone with a young girl and our conversation turned to a park whose name I had forgotten, but which I was trying to remember. The name of this park was not spoken.

Today, one of my acquaintances was talking on the phone near me and, as if demonstratively, loudly said several times “in the park of the living and the dead” … “in the park of the living and the dead.” In fact, this was the park I had tried to recall yesterday.

Yesterday, I requested information on the “keyboard,” and today I received this information — although this acquaintance of mine did not understand what he did for me, and who actually supervised him and the one with whom he spoke on the phone.

I have a friend from childhood with whom I did not communicate from 2001 to 2015 and could not contact in any way. However, at the beginning of 2015, he managed to find out my phone number and call me, because he learned I was looking for him.

Hearing his voice, I was surprised by how exactly he turned to me after so many years. He said, “Hey bro!”, although in the early years we never called each other “bro.” A few hours later, I told several of my acquaintances that an old friend called me “bro” during a telephone conversation.

One of them turned on the TV news at that very time, and the main story was that Barack Obama is so close to David Cameron, the British Prime Minister, that the U.S. President calls him “bro” in telephone conversations.

If synchronicity is a common occurrence in your life, this means that the source of this synchronicity (or node of the synchronicity network) is you personally or someone from your close circle. The source of synchronicity can be calculated in a simple way. Try charging a completely dead AA battery using only your palms. Rotate a completely discharged AA battery between your palms for half a minute, as if rubbing your palms while the battery is between them.

The source is the one who manages to charge a dead battery by rolling (rotating) the battery between his palms. It won’t work like that with a non-source. There are other methods, but they are not as simple as this express method.

People directly involved in synchronicity have a different physiology than others. I hope this information is useful.

On 01/13/2018, I was hiking in the mountains with a friend. We weren’t very experienced, but the trek wasn’t difficult (the elevation about 6,000 ft). Near the summit, the snow became loose and deep, so we considered turning back, but a man we met on the way encouraged us to continue as it wasn’t much farther. However, after another 150 feet, we backed off. It was getting dark and cloudy. I was so tired that I squatted for a moment. When I moved, it was over.

I found myself sliding down at high speed, unable to stop. Finally, I came to a stop on my belly, 1,500 feet below. I had a bloody face, swollen hands, had lost my camera and phone, but was able to lie still. Happily, other tourists saw the accident. When mountain rescuers reached me, they said it was my lucky day as the place I stopped was “the last safe spot.” A helicopter transported me to hospital, where I learned my only injury was a broken rib.

The following day, someone called my companion (she had left her phone number in the mountain shelter) saying he’d found my camera. Surprisingly, it was the man we met near the summit.

On 04/13, I was in the same mountain resort when my sister called saying my phone had been retrieved and I should contact the finder. It was a local girl who spotted it while hiking off the trail. When I told her the circumstances of the event, she asked which hospital I’d been taken to. I was curious why, and she said, “Because I had my finger stitched that day, and you were sitting next to me in the waiting room. Your face was covered with blood.”

* The photo was taken on the accident day.

It seems as though my birth was planned.

My place of birth is Loveland, Colorado.

My parents are compatible on both the Greek and Chinese zodiac.

My date of birth is December 3, 1987, which has the digits 123 and 987 in it.

My birthday is exactly one moon cycle away from January 1 every year. This means my birthday and January 1 share a moon phase every year. On my 30th birthday, there was a full moon. The Gregorian calendar is heliocentric, so there isn’t really a holiday for the moon. However, my birthday is what one might call a “moon birthday.”

My name is Cassandra, like Cassandra of Greek mythology who was given the gift of prophecy by Apollo but cursed not to be believed. She knew the truth about the Trojan Horse, but many people in her public cast off her warnings as insane, due to the curse. I hear voices and see visions like Cassandra of Greek mythology did, and while I try to tell people about my experiences, I am often cast off as insane, just like Cassandra of Greek mythology.

The Apollo missions to the moon were named after the god who gave Cassandra the gift of prophecy and also cursed her. My connection with the moon missions is my moon birthday and my first name.

I have more coincidences to share, but I’m running out of words.

I was watching a video on YouTube in the kitchen while making a snack: oatmeal and flax. I was weighing out the flax at the precise moment the narrator of the video said, “And one day he was weighing some flax.”

The narrator was Alan Watts, and he was reading a Zen Buddhist story from The Gateless Gate. The person weighing flax was a Zen master. While weighing the flax, a student asked the master, “What is Buddha?” And the teacher replied, “This flax weighs three pounds.”

I have no idea what, if anything, any of this means. Link to video cued to the relevant portion:

I dream a lot, I always have. And sometimes I know from the dream what will happen.

In 2016, I had a dream, which I told to my husband after we’d got up that morning. I dreamt I was in a garden, sitting on a wooden bench, and behind the backrest of the bench was a ledge. On the ledge was a small kitten playing with a moth. This wasn’t nasty, it was joyful. I picked the kitten up and brought it to the front of the bench. There was also a tiny baby on the ledge, which I picked up and brought to the front. I leaned forward with the baby in my hands, and the overwhelming feeling of ‘heavenly bliss’ was so immense, I cannot do it justice in words.

As soon as I finished telling the dream to my husband, I heard a Skype call coming in. I rushed inside to take the call. It was my daughter who lives on the other side of the world from me. She was terribly distressed as their kitten had just been run over and killed. She was further distressed, as she said this brought back memories of the loss she felt when, at two months pregnant, her baby’s heartbeat stopped.

When people talk of NDEs, they speak of the overwhelming sense of unconditional love they feel from their experience. This is what this dream showed me. ‘Heavenly Bliss’ isn’t part of my usual vocabulary but is the only way I can describe the feeling I had in this dream.

In 1997, I was 29 and was reaching a turning point in my life. I had completed my MBA in May, and my 2.5-year marriage had come to end.

What a perfect time to book a cruise with my two sisters and two best friends! Party of 5, ALL ABOARD! We set sail aboard the Carnival cruise ship ECSTASY on Nov. 16, 1997, headed to the Bahamas.

We had a most memorable vacation! We met so many people and partied to the max! It was a trip that will be remembered by us all forever!

The next year, I was living alone in a two-bedroom duplex. On July 20, 1998, I awoke from a dream. I remember lying there thinking about it. In my dream, I saw that the cruise ship ECSTASY was on fire. It was a surprisingly vivid dream.

I thought it was odd but proceeded to get up and start my day as usual. I took my shower, then turned on the TV to watch the news. To my horror, I saw on the news broadcast that the ECSTASY cruise ship was ON FIRE! It was burning after departing the port of Miami, Florida, en route to Key West, Florida.

The fire was believed to have started in the laundry room as a result of welding. Several crew members and passengers suffered minor injuries. Losses from the fire exceeded $17 million. The ship’s damage was repaired, and it continued to sail until its final voyage taking place from October 10-15, 2022. The Carnival Ecstasy carried nearly 5.5 million guests in its 31 years of service.

I’ll never forget this dream and seeing it on the news the next day!

In 2008, I read the book, The Black Swan. The book uses “black swan” as a metaphor to describe an unexpected significant event, good or bad. I had never seen a black swan, but soon I was seeing posters with black swans all over town. Every time, it reminded me of the unexpected.

News soon came that my mother had been in an accident while on vacation in Kauai. I traveled there, saw my mother still in a coma, and then friends took me to dinner. It was at that restaurant I saw, for the first time, a pair of Black-Necked Swans (white with black necks). Again, I was reminded of unexpected events, black or white, bitter or sweet, sometimes both. So, I called Janet to come be with her sister. I told her of the interesting coincidences involving the book, posters in Holland, and black-necked swans.

A few days later was Easter Sunday, so we went to a new place for brunch. As we walked toward the restaurant, the path took us over a bridge spanning a goldfish pond. As we looked out over the water, there we saw a pair of swans, but this time they were completely black and the first black swans I had ever seen. Immediately, I knew what God was telling me: my mother was going to pass away, but I didn’t have to be afraid because ‘He’ was present.

After lunch, we returned to the hospital. Two hours later, my mother passed away. She was in my arms, I told her I loved her and would until the end of my days. We were with her when she breathed her last breath. We both wept… but we also knew the Lord was there.

Twenty years later, and my souvenir remains a significant reminder of what I’m alive for.

When I cranked the SOBE drink open and none of the ring broke (don’t they always, at least a little?), there was already an odd pull on my interest.

The movie Old School was big at the time, and as I looked to the underside to read this line from one of its more memorable scenes, it was a great signifier of the creative progress I was about to make.

With my last name being Blue, I’d often hear that uplifting quote from classmates. A lot of us high schoolers appreciated the humor of that movie, and it was kind of endearing to be recognized like that.

Point being: I was at a desk job that I landed right out of school and felt compelled to buy a sketchbook for work that day. As I drew out my first “therapeutic” kind of sketch, I was given an inspiration that acts as a fuel for the rest of my life to ride on.

The sketchbook and drink cap alignment with me and my activity in that moment created a truly meaningful coincidence and acted as a super noteworthy form of validation and encouragement. I intuitively found a way to process my feelings and was that much more inspired, starting down the road of paying attention to the world with artist’s eyes.

In January 1979, I was looking at an atlas in my office about mid-morning when a female work colleague walked by and observed what I was doing. We had the following conversation:

She: “What are you doing, looking for the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald?”

Me: “No, I’m planning a trip. But what do you mean by ‘the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’?”

She: “Oh, you know. That song by Gordon Lightfoot.”

Me: “I’m not familiar with that one. How does it go?”

She: “Well, it’s a real long song about a ship that sank in the Great Lakes a few years ago.”

Me: “Oh, yeah. I remember that incident, but I didn’t know there was a song about it.”

She: “Well, there is. But I guess you don’t hear it that much on the radio because of its length.”

Me: “Well, if I ever hear it, I’ll let you know.”

We went on to talk about other things. Late that afternoon, I got a ride home from work (back then I normally took the bus). I had no intention of going out again once I entered my apartment, but my wife was preparing dinner and she informed me that we needed some milk.

I stalled for as long as I could, hoping to delay the inevitable. But finally, I walked to my car to go to the supermarket. When I started my car, the radio came on. What were the first words I heard? The final chorus of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”!

In midsummer 2022, I was woken by a crashing sound from my window. I got out of bed to check what it was and saw a gray bird on my verandah, so I immediately went down to help it.

I did not touch it at once so it could disperse its trauma. I waited for it to come to, but sadly it did not recover. I buried it under the hydrangea bed where its body will nourish the soil.

The thing in my mind was, what volition (Matthew Zylstra’s talk on The Coincidence Project Speaker Series) caused the bird to crash on my window, wake me, then die?

Summer this year, I had a pair of birds that nested inside a hole on the outside wall. 🤣 It’s the same kind of bird as the bird that died last year, and I could hear the little ones from the inside wall of my bedroom.

It was so lovely to hear them throughout the Spring until it was time for them to fly. One little bird was left to fend for itself and it hopped off the nest. I took it inside but decided to give it back to nature with the wish it would survive.

I’ve been planning to close that little hole, but…if other creatures would like to use it, I am happy to share my space.

My mother passed away from COVID complications Nov. 4, 2020.

She was in an aged care facility, quarantined after requiring fluids in hospital. Soon after, on Oct. 30, she was diagnosed with asymptomatic COVID.

She was unable to have family visits, which was horribly frustrating because I already felt helpless being so far away in Melbourne, Australia. To make my mother feel at ease, we were supposed to have a FaceTime call on Nov. 5.

The night before, I got the worst call of my life.

Not only was my worst fear that something would happen to my mother while I lived abroad, but I couldn’t even fly home when she was diagnosed. To watch a funeral via Zoom was unfathomable.

The pain was the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.

Fast forward several months, while walking to work, I stumbled across a beautiful autumn maple leaf. I picked it up and took it with me to work.

Sitting at my desk watching the cars driving by, a white feather trickled in front of my office window, just for me. (I always asked Mom in spirit to show me signs, either with a white feather or white butterfly.)

I bolted outside, grabbed the feather, and rested it on top of my autumn leaf.

When I walked into work feeling heavyhearted the following week, I saw my feather being delicately hugged by my autumn leaf. This could only be the work of my mother. No doubt, I am the delicate feather, and she is the maple leaf wrapping her energy around me. The feather and leaf still rest on my desk.

The photo shows the tattoo I had created in her memory. The 11’s represent the month she passed and the time the FaceTime call never happened, 11am, Nov. 5, 2020.

Years ago, I bought a pony named Sweet Chance, also known as Sweetie, for my daughter. A few weeks later, my mother was cleaning out her garage, and there was a piece of wood in her garbage can. I looked at it and said to her, “Oh, I’m going to take this a make a sign for Sweetie’s stall.”

I pulled it out of the can and turned it over. It was carved with the words, “Sweet Chance.” We never knew where it came from, but I kept it for the 31 years this sweet pony lived with me until she died.

You can’t see the sign in the photo, but that is her in the stall and her blind companion “looking” at her.

I have many coincidences. This particular one is unique.

When I was a little girl, we lived in Russia for two years. When we came back, I was six years old. The year was 1980, and my father was a Turkish air force attaché. When he retired at a rather early age, we moved to our hometown by the coast of Turkey. I was about 15, having extra math lessons in the summer at a friend’s house.

While studying, I heard someone calling “Taliha” (a name I recognized). I stopped the lesson and kept paying attention, then asked about the next-door neighbors. Apparently, the man was a Turkish ambassador in Russia. I went home and told my mother that I think one of our dear helpers from back in Russia might just be here.

My mum, sister, and I knocked on their door. My mother asked if it was possible “Taliha” was the same Taliha we had known but had had not contact with for 11 years. And there she was: Taliha!

We hugged, crying happy tears. Still today, I don’t know why. I never saw her again, but that was one happy day, thanks to my intuition and ability to hear the signs.

My first and second sons were both born on Tuesday, 19th November.

The first son at 2.20pm in 1974.
The second son at 2.25pm in 1991.

They couldn’t be more different, apart from being tall and gorgeous.

The first son spent 13 years in Los Angeles, mostly illegally as he overstayed his visa. He said he doesn’t need me or anyone, so I haven’t heard from him for over 10 years. He cut contact earlier as well, no contact for 7 years. He cares for no one. I’m trying to be ok with this.

The second son married a girl from Iowa and has lived there for the past 7 years. Thank goodness he’s happy and living his life and stays in touch with his mother. 😊

It seems that I ‘lost’ both sons to the US. I wish I had 5 or 6 sons to take the edge off this hurt.

Some years ago, after having lunch with a coworker, on every corner of the street between the restaurant and our jobs, everybody was kissing.

Young couples, old couples, and it even wasn’t a Valentine’s Day. I never saw so many people kissing on the streets, and I never saw it again. It was just a sunny day where everything felt good.

Fantastic lunch break but with no opportunities taken from my side, neither hers…

Ah, regrets…

As a young only child, I was always drawn to stories of miraculously-found siblings like the ones often featured on soap operas. My mother would always dismiss me, but I kept saying that something like that could happen to me one day.

When my father passed away (I was 15 back then), I got a letter from Social Security saying that I was entitled to a small pension, and that the whole amount was going to be divided into two parts. I asked my mother if the second part was for her, and only then she admitted that I had an eight-months-older half-sister, which she never wanted to talk about, since she was a result of my father’s affair.

My mother gave me all the info she had about the girl: her name, the area she lived in, and her mother’s name. I was so pumped with this news that I told the story to my good friend of 10 years, asking if she thought I should try to meet my sister.

When she listened, her eyes were getting wider and wider, and finally she said: “The girl you’re talking about is my classmate. We’re deskmates.” (In Polish schools, we have double desks for two students to sit in.)

I couldn’t believe my own ears! In the end, I needed some time to build up my courage, but when my friend told me my sister was turning 18, I wrote her a birthday card and asked my friend to pass it on. Afterward, my sister invited me to her birthday party, and this was how we finally met.

In late 1999, I was very short of money. My partner had lost his job. Debts were building up. We had to leave our home and try to find jobs in a new town.

One afternoon I was out walking, because I had no cash to buy petrol. My car was about to run out of registration, and I was thinking about how badly I needed the $470 to pay for that. I needed that car on the road so I could look for work. I was a qualified remedial massage therapist at the time.

I had not talked to anybody about my lack of funds, as I felt embarrassed. Nobody owed me a cent.

I had no income, and I knew very well my bank account was almost empty. We had paper bankbooks back then, and I had a balance of less than three dollars in there. Still, I thought, I will withdraw that and buy a loaf of bread.

I went into the bank, and the teller took my bankbook to record the transaction. I had withdrawn the three dollars and the new balance was…$470. I was magically shocked and delighted. I asked the teller who had deposited that, and she could find no name.

I registered my car, and life took an upturn. I have never found an explanation for this serendipitous event.

As a Family Doctor since 1998, synchronicity has accompanied me my whole life, even before I became a Physician.

One night, I vividly dreamed of my aging female patient who was in a nursing home. She had been fine, but in my dream, she asked me to visit her. The next morning, I was still thinking of her on my way to my work and noticed I had some time to drop by, which I never do. I stopped at the nursing home.

Nurse: “What are you doing here?”

Me: “I don’t know. My patient came to me in my dream and asked for help.”

Nurse: “I cannot believe it. The whole weekend, I was trying to get the on-call doctors to come, and no one called back.” (In Germany where I practice, nursing homes or patients cannot call me. They must call the on-call doctors, who might come to visit or, as with this patient, won’t even call back.)

Me: “Well, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Nurse: “The patient is weak and feels she’s dying. Her children are here; they know it’s time for her to leave. She is in her dying process, but it’s painful, full of anguish. I believe some opiate would help, and I cannot find a doctor willing to give her a bit of opiate.”

Me (opening my bag): “The opiate is here.”

I went to the patient’s room where her children were sitting quietly and explained that their mom had called me in my dream. They wept, and I was touched by it. I rarely see families who patiently sit by their dying loved ones and make sure they have time to say farewell.

My small syringe helped her breathe quietly. My visit helped me say goodbye, touch her, and get to know her lovely family. I then rushed back to work. Some hours later she died peacefully — no anguish, no pain.

In 1979, I was working on the “Mississippi Queen” steamboat and had a vacation coming up. I was 24, had never been out of the country, but wanted to go somewhere exotic. I chose Jamaica.

Another employee who had vacationed there heard I was going by myself and gave me very specific instructions for my safety: Go to a little town called Negril, stay at the Tigress Cafe and Cottages, and proprietor Papa Lawrence would ensure my safety at his compound.

After missing my first flight and waiting standby for two days, I sat at the Miami airport, writing in my journal that if I didn’t get called on the next flight, I would not go because I only had four days left. But fate intervened. I got there at midnight.

As I was out and about the next day, I saw a stunning man walking down the beach road as I was riding the opposite way. We locked eyes for a split second. Later, when I got back to my cottage, he was sitting outside his cottage next door.

We had coffee together the next morning and the thunderbolt struck. We spent two memorable days together, after which I told my mother I’d met the man I was going to marry.

Our 43rd anniversary is next month. Space limits me from telling the other details that make this a meta-synchronicity, but there are many more that certainly qualify it as one, including the fact that we would both be in Cincinnati six weeks later.

I had been talking with the counselor at the Cancer Center and discussing at great length “empaths” and challenges we in particular face in life in general. She stressed that I could be in charge of my reactions and make choices about how to react to things.

Upon arriving home after the appointment, I pulled into the garage and opened the car door to get out. Right under where I was about to place my feet was a snake.

I immediately thought about what she had said and had absolutely no reaction, no surge of adrenaline, and just thought, “Oh, how interesting. A snake in the garage.” I waited until it moved out of the way and got out of the car with no panic at all.

My recent experience has to do with the numbers in my month/day of birth (1111), and Nikola Tesla’s theory of the powerful connection in the numbers 3-6-9.

Fifteen years ago, my father was murdered. This traumatic experience took a toll on my life and health. Thoughts about my father consumed me. After his burial, I never visited his grave.

Recently, my stepsister came to Florida for a visit and wanted to visit our father’s grave. I decided to accompany her. We arrived separately at the cemetery. She was already at the office getting directions to the gravesite, because neither one of us knew the location.

As I arrived, I drove in on my own. Feeling an eerie presence, I noticed a harsh wind blowing as clouds began to cover the sun. The wind was only affecting certain trees, creating a path. For example, trees to the left were blowing, yet trees to the right were still. I thought this was unusual but followed the path.

As a fluke (almost to prove that I may be overanalyzing, a little insane, and probably lost), I repeatedly asked aloud, “Show me where you are. Guide me where to go.”

Suddenly, an extreme warmth and peace came over me. I made a few zigzag turns, then stopped where the trees stopped moving. Minutes later, my stepsister drove down the path, led by a caretaker.

“How did you know where to go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just followed the moving trees.”

We stood by my father’s grave, speaking of his love and guidance, wishing he were here in the flesh, yet knowing he is always with us. Looking around, I noticed the adjacent headstone. It has my birth month and birthday on it. Also, the birthyear includes powerful numbers 3-6-9 in assortment.

I have a new friend who teaches Vedic chanting. The two of us were sitting in her beautiful garden and talking about how hard it is sometimes to transition from one piece of heaven (like sitting in our gardens in the sunshine) to the next piece of heaven of our day, but how we are also always glad when we make that effort.

I started randomly wittering away about how I find this particularly true on Sunday mornings when I go to a beautiful 1672 Quaker Meeting house in the hills. I threw in an anecdote about one occasion a few years ago in August when this remarkable family from Germany/France, who were homeschooling and travelling the world with five children, came by our Quaker Meeting, and I had been so glad I overcame my reluctance to move from the garden after all.

My friend asked me a few questions about them, which seemed a little odd. Then she said, “They were house-sitting for me here. That is why they were in this area.” And she told me the exact year (2017), which we both agreed had been a particularly expansive and important year for both of us spiritually, setting whole chains of events, connections, and growth in motion.

The most intense synchronicity I ever had was connected to a dream.

In the dream, I was at an airport somewhere in Southeast Asia, and there were a bunch of businessmen sitting around a table (like a teppanyaki-style hot plate). I joined them, and they were all eating still-moving octopus tentacles. At the moment I tried some, I woke up.

Once awake, I went through my normal morning routine scrolling through my Twitter feed, and one of the first images that popped up was a Japanese samurai helmet with a golden octopus sculpture on the front. This was synchronicity #1, but not the main one that happened that day.

We were planning on booking a trip to Hong Kong, and that day we went to see a travel agent (might explain why I was dreaming of Asian airports!). We were talking with the agent who has been to Hong Kong himself, and he was giving us the rundown of things to see, etc. He was telling us how to get around and told us the name of the Hong Kong metro system: The Octopus!

I got the most intense feeling of epiphany as soon as he said that, and I knew that I either absolutely have to go to Hong Kong or I really should not go there under any circumstance. After some consideration, we opted not to go.

Had we gone, we would have been in Hong Kong in February 2020 at the epicenter of the Covid outbreak. Instead, we were at Universal Studios in Florida having a great time. Weirdest precognizant synchronicity that ever happened to me. At the moment, I keep seeing repeated numbers when I check the time — not worked out what that means yet.

I was on the verge of a manic episode when I had a spiritual moment. I had almost a Kundalini experience.

I cannot describe the intensity of the closeness to God at that moment. A beautiful blue butterfly started to flutter around me. I was in Alabama in a rural, very remote area, and I was at the end of a driveway.

A few moments later, a car full of Jehovah’s Witnesses pulled up to my driveway. They immediately saw me and exited the car and began to speak to me about God. I was floored with the synchronicity.

Dissatisfied with our teaching jobs in South Korea in 1997, my partner and I took a midnight train from the town we were in to the airport in Seoul to catch a plane to Bangkok, Thailand. As Canadians in our thirties, we hoped to experience living in Asia, supporting ourselves by teaching English as a second language.

While in line to check in, I was struck by the fur hat of a gentleman in front of me. I began speaking with him after commenting on his hat, and it transpired that he lived in Canada, although he was born in Malaysia and had business interests in Taiwan. I told him of our plan to teach in Thailand and travel. He gave us his business card (this is before the internet explosion) and said to call him if things didn’t work out in Thailand.

My partner did not get work in Thailand, so after I had worked for a number of months with still no prospect of a job for my partner, we telephoned the man with the fur hat and arranged for ourselves two jobs in Taiwan.

Before leaving Thailand, we took in a Loy Katong festival on an island in southern Thailand. Floats made of coconut, incense, flowers, and candles are launched by people with some of their nail clippings or hair. The floats are meant to take away the old energy of a person for a fresh and luminous start.

After the ceremony we had to catch a ferry to the mainland to catch a train, then a plane to Taiwan. As I was telling the story of our Loy Katong to a British couple we met on the ferry, a wind picked up the hat off my head and it floated away on the water. The British guy quipped, “You forgot the incense and nail clippings!”

On February 12, 2022, I woke up to the news my youngest brother had died at the age of 33. I was in shock and admittedly extremely emotional.

Later, I was driving to my best friend’s house, and I said aloud in my vehicle, “Just give me a sign you’re okay, Kyle.” I can’t recall if it was a minute or two minutes later when my Apple playlist popped on in my car. It regularly will pick music it thinks you’ll enjoy, and the song that came on I had never heard before.

At 1:11 p.m., a song I had NEVER heard of came on (see screen shot image). I’m surprised I didn’t drive off the road). It was: “Remember Me?” KYLE — SMYLE (Extended).

I have around three coincidences per day. I try to ignore them, but I’m happy to find this group after so many years. Hopefully one day we will understand how this is happening.

First story:

I was speaking randomly with a friend in a bus about marine sailors. Seconds later, a guy jumped on the bus sporting the classic marine sailor tattoo.

Second story:

I lost my job in Germany and found shelter in the house of a German friend I had randomly met. My ex-boss came to bring me some of my money in cash at this house. The German friend just told me that day that he had owned a Porsche 911 in the past. The cash the boss brought me was exactly 911 euros.

The boss and friend then realized they had known of each other for 25 years and had never met till that day, just because of me. The friend had a workshop container in the same yard with my ex-boss. They had lost the connection with each other until I reconnected them.

Indeed, I was in a desperate need, and something magical and impossible happened.

In the early 1830s, the Parker family, along with many others, moved west. Settling about 30 miles from what would become Waco, Texas, they built a fort as protection from Indian raids. The Comanche raided the settlement a couple of years later, during which several children were abducted.

One of those kids was Cynthia Ann Parker, who later gave birth to the last warrior chieftain, Quanah, for the Comanche. Quanah later took the name Parker to honor his mother, becoming known as Quanah Parker.

As I was working for a while in that area, and also because that fort is still standing, I drove there to tour the premises. I thoroughly enjoyed the tour and left 2-3 hours later, going back to my apartment in Waco.

Knowing my eldest daughter had an interest in Native American stories, I emailed her concerning my experiences at the fort. She replied saying she was in process of reading a book about Indian raids on settlements and the kidnapping of children.

The raids were often done often for money (people would pay ransoms demanded for the return of the kids) but also to introduce “new blood” into the Indian village. Those being “closed societies,” it did not take long before most everyone was related to everyone else.

During the course of our emailing back and forth with my daughter, it was established that just about the time I was touring the fort, she had been reading the chapter in her book dealing with Cynthia Ann Parker.

I was hired as a nanny for two families. I worked for one family until the mom had a second child, then stayed on with the second family until that mom had a baby.

Meanwhile, the first family had a good friend who met me, thought I was a good nanny, and in conversation with another family she knew who just had their first child, said, “Too bad C is already employed, as she would be a great nanny for your family.”

This family were having a tough time as the dad had cancer. Just at the point I was let go from the first two families, I met the third family and was hired. They actually let a nanny go with a month’s pay and hired me.

There was a instant connection between the dad and me. We had some deep conversations, as he was a brilliant man. His dad had died when he was 16, and he told me his dad had been a airplane mechanic. I told him that my cousin had been a pilot.

We left it at that until one day he questioned me a bit more, and by the end of our conversation, we realized his dad had been the mechanic for my cousin, flying C130 Hercules aircraft in Angola Africa. His dad had died of a heart attack in Angola.

I asked my cousin, and he remembered Joe, even had a group picture of the crew! So the dad took care of my cousin and I took care of the grandson he never met. Sadly, the young dad passed before his son’s second birthday. I took care of dad and baby until I was no longer needed.

Not every date has obvious coincidences, but what about 5-22-2023? 5 + 2 + 2 +2 + 0 + 2 + 3 = 16

5 + 16 = 21. So: 20, 21, 22, 23

2 + 0 + 2 + 1 + 2 + 2 + 2 + 3 = 14

5 + 14 = 19.  So: 19, 20, 21, 22, 23

Who’s to say it’s just a coincidence?

In 2020, I had a dream about my ex-boyfriend. First, a bit about him: He was a childhood love, passionate and violent, and we were a couple from 1998–2008. At 24, I got pregnant, but he and his parents forced me to have an abortion. At 27, we moved to a Greek island.

Around 2009, we broke up. After 10 years of violence and jealousy, I was free. He moved back to our homeland and became a monk. In 2011, I returned to my homeland to visit my family. The next day, my sister woke me to say that my ex was dead. He’d had a heart attack on the road while delivering paintings to a place close to our neighborhood. That was the first coincidence.

I returned to the island and had a new partner. I lost three pregnancies, the last one in 2018. The same year, my father died from cancer. I went back to care for him in my homeland, but he passed one August night at the hospital while I was having a cigarette on the balcony.

Back to the 2020 dream…

I had just broken up with my partner. That same night in my dream, I saw an old female friend who was pregnant. Surprised, I asked about the pregnancy, and she told me the father was my deceased ex. I was angry for the betrayal in my dream, then found him on a balcony, but he refused to look at me and didn’t care about my pain.

I woke the next day, and received a phone call from a woman who said she wasn’t my friend but wanted to tell me that she and my boyfriend had had an affair since 2017.

The facts after this are so crazy, and so many, but the point is that he acted like my ex. He didn’t care about my pain.

This was my most recent coincidence from May 3, 2023. I have a file where I record all my coincidences 🙂

For an hour one morning, I was doing research on German lawyer Reiner Fuellmich’s involvement in bringing light to the global Volkswagen emissions scandal in 2015, as I wanted to inform others in New Zealand of his high standing and credibility. He successfully sued Deutsche Bank, too.

He is coming to New Zealand as a valid legal jurisdiction to hear and adjudicate his team’s case against several agencies for Crimes Against Humanity.

That evening, I was listening to a few videos on Near Death Experiences (I’m interested in meta/quantum physics, energy, soul life, etc.), going from one to the next, including Anita Moorjani’s, in which she refers to Dr. Jeffrey Long. I looked him up, found a two-hour video, and four minutes into it, Art Bell mentions the Volkswagen scandal — totally unrelated to the rest of the video. I was gobsmacked!

I can see the correlation between the Volkswagen scandal of 2015 and this video also made in 2015… but still an amazing coincidence!

I was watching the YouTube video of Dr. Beitman being interviewed on Next Level Soul while I was getting ready in the morning. Dr. Beitman and Alex (the host) were talking about coincidences and why they happen.

For some reason, I decided to pick an Oracle card, which I keep on the side of my vanity. I shuffled while watching and picked a card. It was a card I’ve never picked before.

What I read astounded me! The photo I included shows the video I was watching, the card I picked, and the corresponding description for that card.

Link to full-sized image: https://thecoincidenceproject.net/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/IMG_3263-8aa8d11c.jpeg

Link to Dr. Beitman’s podcast episode on Next Level Soul: https://nextlevelsoul.com/dr-bernard-beitman/

I have thousands of synchronicity stories, but lately I’ve noticed that the TV has been synced to the words I say and even the things I do. This is after a tragic “accident” happened to me (really, it was orchestrated to put me where I need to be).

The other day, I set fire to some sage just as the person on the podcast I was watching began choking, saying his wife must be burning sage upstairs, and it makes him choke. And this was after hearing continually repeated words that I was saying and writing while watching the podcast.

It happens so much that I’m not surprised anymore. It’s just normal.

What a coincidence! John and I were having dinner in Fort Collins with Dan and his girlfriend Alex, when some high school science kids approached us with a fundraising request.

They asked us to donate money to guess how much weight a balsa wood structure could bear. I said, “Sure, I’ll give you five dollars. How much do other people guess this thing can bear?”

They revealed that people guess between 400 and 1,400 pounds. I pulled out my phone, opened Venmo to pay my five dollars, and saw the time was 5:55pm. So I spontaneously said, “My guess is 555 pounds.”

John and Dan gave me that “Oh, here she goes again” look. I stood front row as they put the weight on and, of all the people, guess who won?

I won!!! You should have seen John and Dan’s faces when they saw me jumping up and down and getting all those prizes. Lesson: when you get an intuitive hit, act on it. 😊

In 1995, I worked for American Airlines and had to transfer to MCI Airport in Kansas City to keep my job. At the time, my mother was the supervisor of screening at MCI.

A woman who worked with my mother — I called her “Ten” because she was a beautiful blonde — knew I was being transferred to Kansas City. She told me about her son, whom she hadn’t heard from in months and couldn’t get in touch with. He was working in Montana last she knew.

I felt bad for Joanna (“Ten”), and to make her feel better, I said, “When I see him, I’ll tell him he’d better call home!” I’d never met or seen this kid, and didn’t even remember his name after our conversation.

I drove out to Kansas City from Rhode Island in my loaded-up Isuzu, got halfway across Missouri, and stopped for gas. As I was about to drive away, a young man came up to my window and asked if I was from Rhode Island (my license plate said so). I said yes, and he said, “My mother’s the supervisor at airport screening, do you know her?” I said, “No, my mother’s the supervisor there!”

He told me her name, and sure enough, Joanna did fill in on my mother’s days off! If I’d been standing up, I would’ve fallen over, realizing this was Joanna’s son!

I told him his mother was worried about him and he’d better call her. He explained he’d left where he was recently living to find new work, so that’s why his mother couldn’t find him.

Clearly we were meant to meet, because Joanna needed to hear from her son! My sons were little at the time, so I definitely understood her worry.

A couple of years ago, I was experiencing significant pain near my ear. I went to the dentist, thinking maybe something was wrong with a tooth.

It turned out a tooth on the other side of my mouth was infected. I couldn’t feel it when it started, because that side of my face was numb. The dentist office helped me set an appointment with another provider to perform a root canal, and the only available appointment was two weeks away.

I was in excruciating pain, but it wasn’t noticeable from the outside, so I went back to work. When the new dental provider called me later, I offered to give them a free service so I could be seen sooner.

I went in the next day, and they told me that if I’d waited any longer, I could have died from a serious infection. It was that bad, in fact the worst they had ever seen, but my dentist wasn’t able to tell from the X-ray.

I’m so thankful this happened! I may not be here today had it not.

It was October 1969, Kiev, Ukraine. I was 19, riding the trolleybus, looking out the window. At one stop, I noticed an old acquaintance across the street. He wasn’t important to me, but for some reason, I felt a powerful urge — almost a panic attack — to get off the bus.

I struggled to get out, exiting through the wrong door against the line of people trying to get aboard. I waved to my friend, who was talking to a man I’d never seen before.

Crossing the street, I heard a voice from nowhere. “This is your husband!” It was before I even saw the man’s face. I thought it was a nonsense, but when my friend introduced us, I got a strange sensation in my solar plexus, a strong knowing that he would be my husband!

Let me tell you, I didn’t plan to get married. I was dating someone else (not seriously), so I quickly dismissed the silly voice.

In a few days, my doorbell rang, and both my friend and the man had come for a visit. We sat in my living room and talked. He was very nice, handsome and polite. In a few days, he came alone, and we talked again, nothing romantic.

To make a long story short, after briefly dating, both of us knew we were meant to be. He proposed in November. My parents were in shock, but somehow felt positive about him. In February, we married, and it has been 54 years, two beautiful children (adults now), and three granddaughters.

My soul had recognized him, and I got off at the correct stop.

My daughter had just started college and moved out for the first time. A few weeks into school, she came home for a visit and brought home her Social Security card, which she left on the kitchen counter.

A day or two later, I came home from work and found the front door unlocked and all my clothes thrown about. Someone had broken into my house, taking mostly jewelry. As I looked around, I realized they had also stolen the Social Security card, which I had forgotten to put away.

I looked up and said to no one in particular, “I don’t need the jewelry. I only wanted the Social Security card back.”

At 8:00 pm, an officer finally showed up to take my report. At 9:00 pm, two other offers knocked on the door and asked my daughter if she was Sarah. “Is this your Social Security card?” they asked.

They had picked up two kids that day and found the card in their pocket! 😀 Not sure who heard me, but I was grateful we got the card back.

I was returning home from a business trip late one night and had parked in satellite parking at Dulles, where there were acres of cars. At the airport, I started talking with a couple who said they had no idea where their car was, noting how late in the evening it was.

I was alone, so they said, “We’re going to make sure you get to your car safely, then we’ll look for our car.” I thought that was sweet of them and was thinking I could help them as well.

After we got off the bus and found my car, the man began saying, “Oh my God!” I asked if something was wrong. He shook his head and pointed. Their car was touching my car, hood to hood.

I had actually led them to their car. We were all stunned with no words to express the magnitude of the coincidence.

I was 16 years old, driving to my aunt’s house in a terrible New York snowstorm. The winds were blowing fiercely, and the snow was so thick and I couldn’t see two feet in front of me.

There were no other cars on this particular road to her house, and I was so scared! I started crying and asking God to please help me.

Then, within 5 minutes, a big snowplow truck came out of nowhere, got in front of me and plowed everything in front of me until I safely reached my aunt’s house!

When I was 16, I lived in New York City. I had a dream one night that I met Paul McCartney and he asked me out on a date.

The next day, a friend and I went to Central Park. I told him my dream, and he teased me. Later, we were sitting on a bench. “Here comes Paul McCartney,” said my friend. I thought he was joking, but sure enough, Paul and his new wife Linda sat down on the same bench as we were on.

I was very excited and gushed as I walked over and spoke with them. They were both kind and friendly, and he gave me his autograph.

Later, I realized my dream had come true — except for the date, of course!

Six months after my husband died, I met a friend for lunch on my wedding anniversary. She gave me a gift in a bag bearing the name of a kitchen store in Seattle, The Wooden Spoon.

My first date with my husband had been at a restaurant called The Woode Spoon. I was speechless and had no doubt that it was Matt sending me a message.

I have so many instances of “coincidences” coming about and being profoundly meaningful, but one that blows my mind every time I think about it happened recently.

I had been having a lot of anxiety and panic about finances, work, and personal relationships. I felt lost and alone. I finally accepted I needed to ask for help (which I am notoriously bad at).

I was in bed crying and said, “Spirit, if you are here and supporting me, and if everything is going to be okay, please send me a specific sign. Send me a cup with a heart on it.” I had heard of other people asking for specific signs from Spirit in the past, but avoided it because I was worried I wouldn’t get a response. This time, I was ready.

The next morning, I was scrolling my phone and came across a picture of a mug in the shape of a heart. “Hmmm, interesting,” I thought, ”but it doesn’t really feel like a sign. This must just be a coincidence.” Within a few more hours, a picture of a mug with a heart on it and a winking face showed up on Facebook, and I knew it was confirmation I was looking for. Since that day, I’ve never seen any cups with hearts again.

This confirmed to me that we are not alone, guidance is always available, and the Universe sends us what we need and ask for. I love this story because it shows us our power and the greater connection in this life.

I lost my oldest daughter in September 2019. A few months before, I kept running across near-death experience (NDE) videos and people who could recall their past lives.

When my daughter passed, I decided to write a book about miracles to help me grieve. On January 1st, we drove to the Tennessee mountains, a place she loved, to leave some of her ashes. I got lost for five hours, and after going through three states, I reached the border and picked the second path out of two trails.

On the way up, we saw a tree. Something told me to stop there. It was getting dark, and we were running out of time. My middle daughter stopped in front of the tree I had paused at, then started to cry.

Carved in the bark of the tree were the first two letters of my oldest daughter’s name.

Every Friday in 2006, I cooked large amounts of food to take to my sick aunt’s place. One Friday, I was so exhausted I was barely able to load the car with my baby, the food, and myself to let the car carry us to my aunt’s for the weekend.

As I locked the house behind me, I commented that the fairies were going to have to step up and do the dishes. If they didn’t, the immense dried-on mess I would return to would just be too much to face. But there were no fairies. No one was checking on me and no one had a key, but I let myself really enjoy the laugh anyway.

After returning home, I took a breath and went to handle the disaster. The pots, pans, muffin tins, and utensils towered over the sink. I grabbed the large stock pot first and ran water to start it soaking… but it was spotless.

A chill went through me. I thought back HARD about whether I had rinsed anything: I had NOT. So I just set the pot aside to do the rest. But… muffin tins: spotless, cheese shredder: spotless, inside and out. Every last utensil, every cup to the bottom, every surface including the sink itself: spotless. I could have taken everything out of the sink and put it back into the cupboards!

So I sat down again. Thinking even harder and in tears. Did I forget cleaning everything?

The next morning I went into the back bathroom. The cabinet under the sink was open and three black kittens disappeared into a hole in the bottom. While I was out, a stray mama kitty and her six kittens had broken in and licked everything clean!

One evening before bed, I lamented to my college-aged son that I wished I were closer to my family. My parents had passed away when I was in my 30’s. Now in my 50’s, I hardly spoke to my two sisters. I’m the youngest sibling, and as a child I drove my mom nuts asking for an older brother. She had declared the request impossible!

So, with thoughts of family filling my head, I declared aloud that the universe would bring me an older brother. And I meant it, with full conviction in my heart. My son and I had recently discovered the Mandela Effect, so I believed the universe is malleable and I could have an older brother. I went to sleep knowing it would happen, just not how or when.

The next day, I got a call from a private detective who had been hired by a man in New York (I’m in Utah) to find his family. The New York man was adopted and had been searching for years. I was elated and asked how long the detective had been searching. He’d been hired that very morning!

Many members of my family had submitted DNA to Ancestry.com, and through these records, the detective determined that the New York man was either my half-brother or first cousin. He asked if I was willing to exchange contact information with the man. Of course, I said yes and agreed to a DNA sample as well.

The detective gave my information to my brother, and within 30 minutes I was looking at the LinkedIn profile of a man named Billy — the spitting image of my father. I cried, and we spoke for the first time that night.

A few weeks later the DNA test confirmed he is indeed my half-brother!

Years ago, I had multiple (accidental) synchronistic experiences tied to artwork I was doing at the time. I finally decided recently to see if I could trigger one deliberately.

I took a drawing I had started back when I was first experiencing this and turned it into a fairly simple painting (above). I called it “Sync Generator,” a reference to a piece of video equipment that was central to one of those earlier events. I felt like necessary elements included: a clear intention to trigger something, humor, references to earlier experiences, and in my case, both silver and gold highly-reflective paint (for reasons too complicated to explain here.)

Long story short, within days of finishing it, I had one of the most profound synchronistic experiences I’d ever experienced. It tied directly to my artwork, family history, and an activist issue I have been involved with for years.

I feel like I succeeded, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I’m leery of “chasing the rabbit,” i.e., trying to trigger another experience right away. I’d be interested to hear any reactions.

I had been thinking about how much I wanted to own a copy of a New York Times cookbook that was about soups and breads, but didn’t want to spend money to buy a new book or pay the monthly fee to be a digital New York Times subscriber.

I was taking my usual daily walk in Vermont and passed a book kiosk, so I opened it up to look at what books were offered, but none caught my interest. I continued my two-mile walk, and when I passed the kiosk again, something told me to look once more.

There was a New York Times cookbook in good condition by one of their columnists, featuring hundreds of recipes for only soups and breads.