Call me crazy, but I believe in synchronicity.  Those unexplained moments of alignment or coincidence.  A sign from the universe or God, from the ancestors or the angels, that They are listening and you’re on the right path.  Where you belong. 

I had just returned from a truly incredible weekend away.  A mini-escape from the reality of kids and mess, dishes and carpools.  An escape from the dreary, dark days of winter in Toronto.  The weekend music festival I just attended had left me floating (and not only because Janelle Monae’s performance of “Float” was epic).  I had been wrapped in this bubble of love and acceptance.  Of deep connection, surrounded by a powerful realization that we are all more similar than we are different.  That love wins.  That it is possible to feel truly seen and known.

And then I had to leave that love bubble that Brandi Carlile had magically created in the Mayan Riviera and come home.  It was a bit of a brutal re-entry.  When my husband picked me up from the train station near our home, he got into a small fender bender just as I was walking up to the car.  I jumped into dinner prep and two evening soccer carpools, finally collapsing in my bed sometime after 11 pm.

The next few days included some moments of connection, but they were vastly overshadowed by challenging moments, especially with my middle son.  Power struggles and raw emotions.  Too much volume and not enough patience and kindness.  What happened to the love and the float?  Where could I find that among the pavement cracks in my urban neighbourhood or in the exhausting reality of my daily life?

During the time I spent in the car that week, commuting to and from work or shuttling kids to activities, I played a lot of the songs I had recently fallen into a deep love with.  Annie Lennox and her full, raw voice belting out “love don’t show up in the pavement cracks; all my watercolours fade to black…” and Allison Russell reminding us that we need a Superlover or that “the question was not if, it was always when.”  I tried to soak this music and these lyrics into my soul, to melt back into that feeling of being held and seen.

Many days in the last year had left me feeling an overwhelming sense of longing.  A sadness and loss, over what, I wasn’t sure.  A feeling of disappointment, in myself, mostly.  A need for more – meaning, connection, appreciation.  An eagerness to create and give, to connect and share.  After having glimpsed a sliver of what that felt like in the warm bubble of the music festival weekend, I was feeling an even deeper melancholy and uneasiness.

As I drove alone through the dark, urban streets, singing to Allison Russell, I had a profound moment of synchronicity.  Just as I hit the chorus, “you’re not alone,” I passed a garage, painted in beautiful graffiti.  Black and gold paint, shining under the streetlights in the wet January night, with those exact same words: You Are Not Alone.

And at that very instant, I swear that I could feel the hands of all of my ancestors.  All of my prior selves and soulmates, hugging me from across time and space.  Wrapping me in that love and reassurance I needed.  And all I could do was give a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, and roll on down the street.

You are not alone.

Ever.

Spotify links to the songs referenced: