Live in the Mystery

PREFACE The events in this book were recorded, collected and hand written in notebooks and journals over a number of years. They’ve been stored in boxes through many moves from home to home. I finally began opening these boxes when I moved into my present home in Denver, Colorado. I rediscovered what I see now as a treasure trove of journals, notebooks and sketchbooks that serve as recorded history. For reasons that aren’t clear to me, this writing and drawing seemed important to save through move after move after move. I calculate I’ve lived in 29 different homes or apartments over the years. I’m glad I trusted that intuition to save these journals now. During the long hours I spent re-reading these pages, I began a process of remembering and reflecting on the meaning and impact of some of my seemingly ordinary, and sometimes profound, life experiences. While I’ve kept journals for as long as I can remember, I began writing more seriously when my life was being shaken by a series of rapid and unexpected occurrences that I didn’t understand and couldn’t explain, like the experience of time standing still at 3:15. It seemed important to keep a record for no other reason than to bear witness for myself. I began compiling these memories in my new home in Colorado with a pot of freshly-brewed coffee and a view of the Rocky Mountains. It is here, on a sunny day, with a cool breeze carried in through the sliding screen door, that I unpack the box before me in front of the fireplace and settle down to read and remember. Here I weave together some of my life’s most intriguing experiences and reflect on how they’ve come to impact my life and shape the woman I’ve become. In hindsight, I can see more clearly the patterns in this weaving and the path unfolding before me. I believe that synchronicity is more than a happy accident. Some say it’s God winking at us. Others say it confirms we’re part of a connected universe and proof of a connected, unified whole. Certainly, it’s an affirmation for me of the mystery of life. Chapter 4 In a high desert inland city surrounded by towering mountains overlooking a salty lake, a digital clock with glowing red numbers flashes 3:15 3:15 3:15 I bolt upright in my bed, throwing the white down comforter to the floor. It dawns on me that I’m late for work. I rush to the bathroom as sunlight streams in through the skylight. I brush my teeth in a hurry and splash cold water on my face. I can hear the sounds of city traffic from the loft of my home on Windsor Street. Glancing at the watch on the bathroom counter, I’m surprised to discover it has also stopped at 3:15. I hear a car engine start up outside as a neighbor shouts goodbye to someone. I rush down the wooden stairs in the early 1900’s brick and craftsman-style bungalow and quickly glance through the living room window. A girl wearing a large pink backpack races up the street on her bicycle. I hurry into the kitchen to check the time on the battery operated clock above the sink. The hands are stopped at 3:15. A sense of strangeness envelopes me. My breathing is shallow as I try to take in this information. I really want to know what time it is and am frustrated that I don’t. I dress for work and lock the front door of the house. Outside, to the east, the peak of Mount Olympus glows pink in the morning sunlight. There’s a familiar hum of traffic from the boulevard two blocks away, which informs me that it's the height of rush hour traffic. The bells of the Cathedral of the Madeleine chime eight times. That’s helpful information. I put the key in the ignition of my Chevy Blazer but the engine doesn’t turn over; the battery is dead. I race back inside the house to call AAA to jump start my car. The truck arrives, the driver connects the jumper cables, and the engine comes to life. With the engine humming, I glance at the dashboard clock, startled to see it also stopped at 3:15. I feel a surge of adrenaline hit me and it blows my mind to see the numbers 3:15 again. Breathing fast, my heart pounding, I drive toward the city center, each signal light seeming to anticipate me, turning red before my eyes. Finally, inside the high-rise office tower with the copper colored pyramid roof, the elevator stops on nearly every floor before finally reaching its destination – the 22nd floor. Heads turn as if to acknowledge with surprise, yes, we notice you’re late today. This is unusual for me. I walk into my west-facing office with the view of the lake and stand at attention when I see the clock on the credenza behind my desk -- 3:15. Feeling shock, I make myself take three deep breaths. In that third breath, I notice a package on the corner of my desk encased in brown wrapping paper. Inside I find a note from my friend Allison, “I know you’ll enjoy this book.” It’s Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams. I flip through the pages randomly stopping on page 53 and read the first sentence, “There is a place where time stands still.” I’m stunned. What’s happening to me?