Our weekends are weird. Since we haven’t worked regular jobs for years, our Saturdays and Sundays shouldn’t be much different than any other day of the week. Except they are.
Maybe it’s that we live close to an elementary school where, during a regular week, traffic starts backing up in the morning and the afternoon, drop-off time and pickup time for the kids. When I’m at my desk on the weekend, I hear less traffic out there on the road beyond our fence. I’m aware that we’ve reached a weekend just by the sounds and activity around me.
Recently, our Saturdays have been about excursions- to the outdoor green market, for instance, where we can get fresh tuna for about 13 bucks a pound. At our local supermarket, that same chunk of tuna would cost close to 40 bucks a pound. Last Saturday, our fish truck wasn’t around. Another vendor told us the fish guy had trouble with his truck. So this Saturday we went off in search of Crabbie’s, Scottish beer that has only recently become available in the U.S.
When Rob first did a search for who in our area might carry this beer, Google led him to a spot nearly 500 miles away, in South Carolina. He kept poking around on the Internet and eventually discovered that a store called Total Wine carried the beer, in a particular aisle, and even narrowed it down to the side of the aisle where he could find the beer.
So as we set off for Total Wine I thought, Okay, let’s have a synchro. I’m usually thinking that when I head anywhere. We’d never gone to Total Wine before and when we walked in, I was drawn through one aisle after another of wines from dozens of countries, hundreds of areas. Wines of every variety and price.
I veered down one aisle, scrutinizing the wines, and Rob veered down another, searching for his Scottish beer. In the foreign wine section, I selected a bottle of Hungarian wine and immediately imagined myself sitting outside a café in Budapest. Then Rob and I ran into each other and he still hadn’t found his Scottish beer, so I asked an employee about Crabbie’s.
It turned out that the beer was a recent addition and the employee talked to some other employee via Bluetooth and led Rob away. I returned to my fantasies about Budapest and wondered what other foreign country I might visit among the wines. And then, there it was, a bottle of red that became my synchro for the day, Police Synchronicity.
And it cost less than ten bucks.
I haven’t tried it yet. But already, I expect to be transported into the realm of the implicate, the enfolded order that physicist David Bohm talks about. Already, I’ll need the album by The Police playing in the background. Already, I’ll need to be wearing a shirt that reads, Synchros here and now.