Sweet synchronicity.

The significance of "coincidence" in life, love and creativity  ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ Sweet synchronicity The significance of "coincidence" in life, love and creativity ​ --------------------------------------------------------------- Housekeeping: Yesterday I released a spoken-word poem called Zen. If you'd like to listen to the poem, you can do so [here](=). However, if you're a purist who prefers to consume their poetry on the page, I've typed it out at the bottom of this email. --------------------------------------------------------------- In Stephen King’s memoir, [On Writing](, he tells a story from his childhood about a time he had to shit. With no commode anywhere in sight, King was forced to drop trout in the middle of the woods, relieve himself and then wipe his ass with several fistfuls of leaves he ripped up from the ground. Something felt a bit off but King thought nothing of it. By the following morning, King's buttocks took on the shape, shade and size of a baboon. I retell King's story for two reasons. For one, even though [On Writing]( is technically a book about writing, it's really a book about storytelling; a skill every creative person should have in their back pocket. For two, it's a cheeky segue into today's topic: God. Now, I’ve got to be damn careful writing about God because it tends to have the same effect on folks as poison ivy had on King’s adolescent ass. It makes them itch. Furthermore, I never want to give the false impression that I am pious. I am not pious. I am the furthest thing from pious. I am about as pious as a wolf applying for seasonal work as a wool shearer on a sheep farm. I've drunk my way to hell and back. I've written [poetry]( that's so raunchy it'd make Charles Bukowski look like a patron saint. I've made the bulk of my living working in [advertising](=) (which isn't the devil's work but it shares the same floor). I've touched just about every drug there is besides heroin (the only reason I'm holding out on heroin is for fear I'll end up like Chet Baker but without any of the skill or lasting legacy). And, speaking of [falling in love too easily](=), I'm so reliant on the validation of strangers on the internet, some days I wonder if I wouldn't be better off sticking a fork in this whole writing affair and becoming a male escort. I do, however, have a relationship with God. We go way back. In elementary school, my teacher gave my class a book to take home and read. She then told us that if we lost the book, we would regret it for the rest of the year. I lost the book. Riddled with shame, I went to great lengths to cover up my crimes. Because we would occassionally read the book aloud as a class, I printed out the cover at home on a shitty piece of printer paper and wrapped it around a library book of the same size. My ploy worked about as well as you’d think. She caught me red-handed and told me I had until the following day to find the book I had lost. That night, I climbed to the top of my bunkbed and stared up at a ceiling of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, genuinely believing that my life, as I knew it, was over. I cried until my throat hurt and then I cried some more. I then prayed. I prayed to God promising him that if he helped me find my book, I would believe in him until the day I died. The next morning, as I sat on the bus with my forehead pressed against the glass, I felt I was en route to my execution. To take my mind off the overwhelming misery, I reached down into the front pocket of my backpack for the Chinese Finger Trap I had won at an arcade a few weeks back and unearthed––to my great astonishment––my book. I kept my end of the bargain. When coincidences happen in my life, I don't see them as coincidences but as synchronicities. Carl Jung was a Swiss Psychologist who coined the term synchronicity to describe the magical moments in life when two unrelated experiences become intertwined. While most scientists believe synchronicities to be nothing more than coincidences caused by confirmation bias, Jung thought differently. Jung felt that most "coincidences" were directly related to the observer's mind and that they could provide powerful insight and direction into one's life. I side with Jung. I don't believe in superstition. I don't think twice about broken mirrors, black cats or a murder of crows. However, I do believe in synchronicity. I am constantly looking for positive synchronicities in my life to fuel my creativity, brighten my day and feel better about decisions I am making with my heart rather than my mind. I will never walk past a heads-up penny. I will squint to see shapes in the clouds. I will smile every time I think of someone and then they inexplicably decide to call. I will make time to read books and watch movies and listen to albums that people keep bringing up to me, again and again, at random. Where I differ from Jung, is that I believe some synchronicities––not all but some––to be small acts of divine intervention. On Friday I experienced a synchronicity of this genre. This past week, I’ve been in an odd melancholic funk; the week felt like the first days of winter when your body hasn’t yet adjusted to the stark change in temperature and no matter how many pairs of socks you slip on or hot showers you take or cups of coffee you drink, you can’t get warm. Two mornings ago I boarded a plane from Nashville to Los Angeles feeling very sorry for myself for no good reason at all. In the air, I pulled out a leatherbound notebook my friend Dave––short for David––gifted me and I began writing down a bunch of sad shit. Several sentences into my pity party, I looked up from my pen to find a woman––one row ahead of me––struggling to pick something to watch from a sea of titles illuminating on her laptop screen. She eventually made her decision: The Boy Who Lived. Over the next hour, I watched this documentary over this woman's shoulder. I couldn't hear anything that was said, but I gathered what was going on by watching the footage. Side Note: If you're ever creatively blocked, try absorbing art with half of your senses (like watching a film without sound). The documentary was about Daniel Radcliffe and his best friend and stunt double, David Holmes. I was mesmerized as I watched David perform stunt after stunt after stunt: dodging fireballs, falling off rooftops and riding a mechanical broom twenty feet in the air. Eventually, an accident occures. David is paralyzed from the waist down. Overnight, he goes from being one of the youngest and most talented stuntmen on the planet to being unable to eat or drink without assistance. I watched David rehab himself back to life. He was smiling, playing, joking and laughing. I had never felt more inspired by any one person. This got me thinking about synchronicity. Firstly, this woman could have sat anywhere on that plane––it was a Southwest flight––but she sat one seat in front of me, on the outside of the row opposite of me, at precisely the perfect angle for me to enjoy an unobstructed view of her screen. Secondly, she could have picked from thousands of movies, documentaries and shows but, for whatever reason, she chose to watch The Boy Who Lived. Lastly, in the midst of my pity party, I looked up from my notebook that my friend David gifted me to watch another man named David take on the fight of his life. This to me is synchronicity. It's a sign that something, somewhere, was offering myself––and perhaps a few other nosey passengers on that flight––perspective. I don't believe in feeling pity for others as a means of feeling better about your own situation. That's not what this is. I don't feel pity for David. I admire the hell out of him. But, I do believe the world is filled with tremendous and incredible people and synchronicity sees to it that we cross paths with these people in the moments when we need them most. If you believe in synchronicity too, there has to be a reason why I'm writing to you about David Holmes on a Sunday afternoon. David exists as this beautiful reminder that each of us get to choose our experience. Please go follow [David](=) and watch his documentary: [The Boy Who Lived](. He might just change your life. By [Cole Schafer](​ --------------------------------------------------------------- You're more creative than you think Hone your creative writing chops with Meet Cute Written by myself and illustrated by an A.I. interpretation of Roy Lichtenstein, [Meet Cute](=) is a creative writing guide that reads like your favorite book. It utilizes 16 raw and wildly entertaining stories, along with invaluable writing lessons and thought-provoking prompts to help you fall in love with the craft of writing while becoming the kind of writer that readers can't help but fall in love with. [LET'S MEET CUTE](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- Butterfly kisses The gentle, delicate art of attracting luck Many good things have been made bad at the hands of impatience and desperation. Instead, you must create the proper conditions for good opportunities to find you. You must show up, work hard and be generous. Once you've created these conditions, you must then recognize that everything else is out of your control. Whether the Monarch chooses to land on your shoulder or someone else's shoulder isn't up to you. It's up to the wind and which direction it's choosing to move. It's more or less a matter of luck. Humans have been trying to control luck for centuries. It has left many broke, broken-hearted and dead. You can't control fate just like you can't lasso an F5 tornado. This is perhaps the most difficult truth to accept: that we can show up, work hard, be generous and still not get what we want. However, relinquishing control allows you to remain still, calm, centered and content during the inevitable moments when life isn't going according to plan. And in the moments when it hurts––not getting what you want––try to remember that while you may want it, you don't need it. You need so very little to be happy. [READ THE DAILY PAGES]( --------------------------------------------------------------- A poem called Zen On salving to the wounds we endured as children ​ Zen By Cole Schafer ​ my twenties were a black fastback gunning down i-69 at a 140 mph clip towards bloomington, indiana ​ hauling enough colombian cocaine to will an elephant to beat a cheetah in a footrace ​ that sonofabitch passed me on a no-moon night while i was enjoying a smoke, leaned up against mile marker 27 ​ the wind it spun me around, sucked the moisture from my eyes, choked the cherry on my cigarette and tore the jacket from my shoulders like it wanted to fuck me ​ when i opened my eyes i saw the faint glow of two tail lights staring back at me–– staring, staring, staring, gone–– i rubbed the wet back into my eyes, lit another cigarette, dusted the road from my levis and kept walking ​ by mile marker 28 my mouth was so dry i would have traded the wad in my pocket for a six-pack of pig piss ​ by mile marker 29 my feet yelped every time they kissed the asphalt, blood and sweat sloshing around in my saucony’s like lukewarm ski in a big swig ​ and by mile marker 30, i was praying for a pair of headlights that’d take me away ​ 3-months from my thirtieth birthday i was a blackbird swaying on an electrical line counting down the seconds in between the lightning bolts and the thunder claps like one m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i, two m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i, three m-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i–– and as soon as i thought to myself that it ain’t the storm that kills you but the anticipation of the storm, i blinked ​ and the storm was upon me like a rottweiler, ​ it was in that dog’s mouth, that i began thinking seriously for the first time about the space between my own ears ​ all my life i had kicked my mental health down the road like a can and it was finally catching up to me ​ i remembered my grandmother and the little zen garden she kept ​ i remembered the way she’d take my hands and teach me how to rack the sands until the surface laid as still as the face of a sleeping pond ​ i wanted this–– approaching thirty years of age, i wanted a zen garden between the ears–– i wanted a mind as smooth and as soft and as calm as indiana cloaked in snow–– ​ shortly after autumn the skies presiding over indiana would spit out snow and the flakes would melt the moment they touched the ground like an ice cube cradled in sun-warmed hands and i’d ask my mother how come the snow won't stick? and she would say the soil hadn’t the chance to run cold ​ and challenging her wisdom i’d head outside and bury my hands in the grass, running my fingers through that mess of green hair, only to feel a faint whisper of warmth clinging to the earth like the memory of a feeling of a fire that had burned for hours once upon a time ​ yeah––i remembered my grandmother and i remembered the little zen garden she kept ​ all my life, i had reached outwards: towards money to find worth, towards notoriety to find meaning, towards drugs to find distraction, towards women to find pardon from my shame ​ exhausted and empty-handed, i finally found the courage to reach inward and to hold the hand inside my chest; to tend to the wounds i had endured as a child ​ i swept that scared, trembling kid into my arms and i told him everything was going to be alright i lied to him i lied to him i lied to him until he and i believed it ​ and as he heaved, our pain an unrelenting storm, i looked up from our suffering and i saw not a world of men and women but hurt children who had grown old ​ and when the mourning gave way to grace and that child could stand on his own two feet, we walked quietly, so quietly, to the bank of the garden, raking still the footsteps left behind by our departure and we stood, hand-in-hand, watching the sun cast a single shadow on the sand of a lost boy now a broken man just trying to find his way back home ​ [LISTEN TO "ZEN"](=) --------------------------------------------------------------- [[linkedin]​]() ​ [Update your email preferences]( or unsubscribe [here](​ © 2024 The Process 113 Cherry St #92768, Seattle, WA 98104-2205