Handshakes from the Universe

“The universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself; everything that you want, you already are.”

–Rumi (1207–1273; Persian poet, scholar, and mystic whose timeless works explore themes of love, spirituality, and the interconnectedness of all things.)

I don’t have a farm, and I’ve never had one. But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald himself. Patterns surround us, after all—sometimes playful and sometimes profound—and lately, the rhythm of that old nursery rhyme keeps echoing in my mind:

Old MacDonald had a farm
Ee i ee i o
And on his farm he had some cows
Ee i ee i oh
With a moo-moo here
And a moo-moo there
Here a moo, there a moo
Everywhere a moo-moo

By the time I listen to the cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, and all the other animals that have wandered into the song since it started in 1706, I’m always left wondering what animal sound I’ll hear next.

But these days, I’m feeling like Old MacDonald not because of the animals I don’t have but because of the numbers I do. They’re everywhere—so much so that my version of the rhyme might go like this:

Old Man Kendrick saw some numbers
Ee i ee i o
And in those numbers, he found great calm
Ee i ee i oh
With a one-one here
And a two-two there
Everywhere a three-three

Those numbers aren’t just any numbers. They’re palindromes–they remain the same when reversed, like 121. We all see them, and usually, it’s not anything to write home about. However, I wrote about them once in “Take Three | Living With a Writer: Owning Up to My Own Eccentricities.” In that post, I mentioned my fascination with palindromes.

Some of you might be saying:

“They’re just numbers. After all, the brain is wired to notice patterns.”

Some days I’m saying the same thing.

Or some of you might be thinking:

“What you’re experiencing with those numbers is synchronicity–the universe lining things up in a way that you can’t ignore. So, sit up and take notice.”

Some days, I’m thinking the same thing because I’m a big believer in synchronicity. I could point to endless examples in literature. Surely, you’ll remember that moment in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” when the narrator perceives an external presence—seraphim swinging a censer—as he grieves and longs for his deceased Lenore:

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.   

The seraphim seem to offer grace and comfort—a chance to shift perspective. Yet instead of accepting it, the narrator clings to despair, choosing to fixate on the raven’s ominous “Nevermore.”

Or consider Sarty in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning.” His inner conflict aligns with external signs and moments. The flickering fires, the repeated moral choices, and the final break from his father feel like synchronistic echoes guiding him toward a moral path, despite his family’s destructive tendencies.

And in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral,” the narrator’s transformation during the drawing of the cathedral feels like a moment of deep synchronicity. His inability to “see” spiritually aligns with the blindness of the visitor. As they draw the cathedral together, there is a sense that the universe orchestrates this connection to lead the narrator toward personal growth.

These moments in literature remind me that synchronicity often acts as a mirror, reflecting back a truth we’re ready to see. They resonate because, like the seraphim in “The Raven” or the blind visitor in “Cathedral,” I’ve experienced moments where something beyond myself seemed to nudge me toward clarity.

But what’s happening with the palindromic numbers that have taken up residence with me is different. This feels deeper and more personal. This feels gentle, steady, like footsteps in alignment with my own, affirming my path.

It all started back in November when I reached my palindromic birthday of 77. I chuckled when I saw it coming—it wasn’t my first palindromic birthday, of course, but something about 77 felt especially auspicious. Since then, palindromic patterns haven’t just appeared occasionally; they’ve settled in, becoming a quiet rhythm in my days.

It’s not just the random glance at the clock showing 3:33 or the odd receipt totaling $22.22. These numbers have become more consistent, almost as if they’ve found a permanent rhythm in my life. The day after I made a tough decision, the clock read 12:21—a subtle nudge from something beyond myself. Later, after a longer-than-usual bike ride, I checked the dash: 22.2 miles. By then, I was already tuned in.

They’re not asking me to figure something out, nor are they pointing to some hidden treasure or cosmic secret. Instead, they light up the small corners of my day, asking only to be noticed and appreciated. License plates, receipts, random book pages—they all flicker with symmetry, mirroring something steady and affirming.

Last week, the numbers seemed to crescendo, appearing almost everywhere in one single, solitary day: 444, 717, 505, 808, 919, 404, 414, 555, 88 1111, 404, 111, 212, 414, 444, 555, 77, 44, 212, 515. It felt like a boisterous celebration, arranged by the universe—not for my analysis, but simply for my acknowledgment.

These patterns aren’t luring me toward some great revelation. Instead, the numbers feel still—like standing in the center of a room, with mirrors reflecting me from every angle, reflecting where I stand.

And in that reflection, I feel something that I wasn’t seeking and hadn’t expected—affirmation.

I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing after answers, but this feels like the opposite. The palindromes don’t feel like questions at all. They feel like handshakes from the universe, soft and steady, offering no demands—just quiet reassurance. They’re not saying, “Keep going,” or “Turn around.” They’re saying quite simply, “You’re already here. And it’s enough. All is well.”

I might not have cows or chickens, but I have these numbers. They’re mine, and they’re here, there, and everywhere—soft reminders that I’m two-stepping with the universe. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my handshakes from the universe for all the moo-moos in the world. These quiet handshakes remind me that I’m exactly where I need to be. And isn’t that enough?

Listening to the Unsaid

“Not to speak is to speak, not to act is to act.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945; German theologian, pastor, and anti-Nazi activist; Symbol of moral courage and a powerful voice for justice and human rights.

Years ago, a colleague and close friend told me something that I would never forget:

“Always pay attention to what people say …”

And as he continued his advice, his voice became more measured and emphatic:

“but pay more attention to what they don’t say.”

I knew immediately what he meant. When interacting with others, it’s crucial to notice not only their words but also their silences, whether in face-to-face conversations, emails, or text messages. For example, a friend who shares their day enthusiastically but glosses over a specific event might be experiencing discomfort or distress. At work, a colleague who avoids discussing a particular project might be facing hidden challenges or dissatisfaction. In emails, if someone consistently skips over certain questions or topics, it might be a cue that they’re uncomfortable or unwilling to address those issues. Similarly, in text messages, when someone constantly shifts the subject away from certain topics, it might suggest they’re shielding their true feelings. A total failure to mention something significant, like a major life change or a recent accomplishment, might be just as telling. This omission might reveal underlying issues, such as feelings of inadequacy or a desire to avoid judgment. Equally important is when someone fails to respond to something that you’ve shared. It might indicate disinterest or a reluctance to engage with the topic.

These unspoken cues–what I call the unsaid–often reveal more than words ever could, offering deeper insights into the thoughts and emotions that people might not openly express. For example, I’m thinking of President Biden’s July 21 announcement that he was withdrawing from the 2024 presidential race and his subsequent address to the Nation. My siblings have said nothing to me about it, and most of my friends have said little more. It’s as if the President never made the announcement. It’s as if the President never delivered the address. It’s as if those news items were overshadowed by other national and international news.

Right now, you might be thinking:

“Well, I don’t talk politics either.”

I hear you. I get it. You’re probably doing the wise thing. As a rule, I don’t talk politics either with my family and many of my friends because I know that they don’t want to listen to my views. But not even mentioning the President’s decision is different. Although I would not expect to have a discussion, I would expect to hear a brief mention.

The silence that has surrounded me, by and large, since the President’s announcement has caused me to spend more than a little time reflecting on the power of silence and what the unsaid can reveal.

Why People Remain Silent.

Reflecting on why people choose silence reveals a complex mix of motivations. Fear of conflict and judgment often play significant roles, as many worry that speaking up will lead to disagreements or criticism. A lack of confidence in their communication skills or the validity of their thoughts can also hold people back.

Additionally, some prefer to protect others’ feelings, avoiding potentially hurtful conversations. Cultural and social norms can discourage sharing certain thoughts or emotions. Uncertainty about timing or approach further contributes to silence, as does the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths or difficult situations. Others might simply consider their concerns too trivial to mention.

Aside from exploring possible reasons why people choose silence, what about the consequences of this silence. By understanding the dangers of silence, we can better appreciate the importance of speaking up and listening to the unsaid.

The Dangers of Silence.

As I reflected on the whys and wherefores, the dangers of inherent silences popped up in my mind as well. Those dangers can infiltrate our lives and sneak up on us unawares. We need to be aware of them, lest we fall prey to the unintended consequences of our silence. Acknowledging these risks allows us to create a more open, honest, and empathetic environment in our personal and collective lives.

I’m thinking of a number of areas, and I’ve already mentioned two of them. Political Silence. Not discussing President Biden’s decision, for example, can lead to misinformation, apathy, and a lack of preparedness for future developments. Family and Friend Dynamics. Not exploring political issues within families and amongst friends can lead to misunderstandings, resentment, and long-term damage to relationships, potentially causing irreparable harm and estrangement.

Or what about Social Issues? Remaining silent on social justice issues at home and abroad can perpetuate inequality and hinder progress. Silence on systemic racism, gender inequality, and human rights abuses can allow discriminatory practices to continue unchecked, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities and amplifying their suffering.

Environmental Issues loom large, too. Silence on climate change, pollution, and conservation can accelerate ecological damage and irreparable harm, leading to catastrophic climate events and irreversible ecosystem damage. By not speaking out, we’re creating a planet in peril.

Let’s not forget about Workplace Environment. Silence can enable toxic behavior, low morale, and decreased productivity. It can also stifle innovation, perpetuate systemic issues, and harm employee mental health. By speaking up, we can foster a culture of psychological safety, promote positive change, and create a more inclusive work environment.

In the area of Mental Health, silence can exacerbate mental health struggles, allowing stigma, shame, and suffering to persist. By not speaking out, we prevent others from seeking help and hinder our own healing, but by sharing our experiences, we can reduce stigma and increase support.

Spirituality is another area that we need to consider. Silence can disconnect us from our deepest beliefs and values, leaving us feeling unfulfilled and without purpose. By exploring our spirituality, we can discover new sources of comfort, meaning, and resilience.

Obviously, too, we need to be mindful of Aging and Dying. Silence often surrounds the end of life, leaving us unprepared and unsupported. By not discussing our mortality, we miss chances for closure, healing, and cherished moments with loved ones and fail to make informed decisions about end-of-life care and legacy.

These are just a few examples that illustrate the far-reaching impact of silence across different spheres of our lives. Silence affects other areas of our lives, too, such as Education, Media and Journalism, Personal Relationships, and Community and Social Movements. By acknowledging the impact of silence in these spheres, we can work towards creating a more open, honest, and empathetic society, where our voices are heard and valued.

Transforming the Silence.

It seems to me that, at a minimum, we need to have these conversations–even the hard ones–with ourselves so that we know where we stand and what we stand for. Ideally, we need to have those conversations–even the hard ones–with our families, our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues, and our world at large. If we choose silence, we need to remember its inherent dangers. Equally important, if others choose silence, we need to remember to listen to the unsaid. The silences we hear can offer powerful and empowering insights.

As we navigate the complexities of silence, may we find the courage to speak up, listen deeply, and create a world where every voice is valued and feels safe being heard. Not to speak is to speak, and by finding the courage to speak up, we can break free from the constraints of silence and foster a culture of openness, empathy, and understanding. Breaking the silence is crucial not only for our personal growth and relationships but also for our collective well-being.

Let’s resolve to raise our voices and transform the silence.

Human Being, Not Human Doing

Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961; Swiss psychiatrist and psychoanalyst; father of analytical psychology.)

The rain was steady and heavy all night. I say “all night,” but I’m not really certain when it started. It’s not as if it awakened me, and I looked at the clock and whispered to my sleeping self, “Ah, it’s raining.” But I could hear it, even as it lulled me into a deeper and more restful slumber.

When I awakened, the raindrops were pearling their way down the window panes. As I lay in bed–looking and listening–I knew that Plan B would govern my day.

Plan A had been to continue my yard work. This year, my focus is more on “taking out” than on “putting in.” I have lots and lots of shrubs–especially rhododendrons–that have outgrown the spaces where I planted them. For some, a heavy pruning will restore their vitality and their appearance. For others, pruning will neither restore their vitality nor their beauty. They have to be removed. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Pruning. Removing. Hauling truckload after truckload to the landfill. That was my Plan A.

But I had checked the weather forecast before going to bed and knew the strong likelihood of rain.

That was when I came up with Plan B. I could spend the day doing some extra indoor biking. Then, I could start rearranging the artwork in my office–a task that I have needed to tackle for months, but one that I have managed to avoid doing with full success. And betwixt and between, I could make Ukrainian Sauerkraut Soup–perfect for a chilly, rainy-day dinner–and I could bake Jumbo Sourdough Banana Nut Muffins–a perfect way to use up this week’s sourdough discard. 

It was settled. Plan B, it would be.

But before I started to execute that plan, I perused my smartphone news. As I did, I was ever aware of the rain, still falling hypnotically. For a second, I considered stopping the pendulum on my grandfather clock so that the only sound would be the rhythm of the falling rain. Then, in the next second, I looked out the window onto my deck. I could see the raindrops dropping one by one off the scalloped edges of my Asian patio umbrella–all wet with green bamboo, red sun, pink blossoms, and blue happiness. And for another second, I considered trying to count the drops as they fell, starting at the 6:30 position on the umbrella, proceeding clockwise, counting every sliding raindrop, working my way back home, and then beginning anew.

As I considered those thoughts, I glanced down at the next news flash to discover an article from Open Culture: “Stephen King Recommends 96 Books that Aspiring Writers Should Read.” I knew immediately that it was not newsy at all. I had read that same article nearly a decade ago. I perused the list anyway, discovering that I could not claim to have read any more of those books now than I could claim to have read them then. As I reached the end of the article, I found that King had updated his list: “Stephen King Creates a List of 82 Books for Aspiring Writers (to Supplement an Earlier List of 96 Books.)” I scanned that list quickly.

Somehow, I was brought back to the reality of my grandfather clock still ticking. I had not stopped the clock as I had considered doing. I was brought back to the reality of the raindrops still falling off the scalloped edges of my Asian patio umbrella. I had not counted the raindrops as I had considered doing.

I was brought back to the haunting reality that my day was wasting away.

I still needed to meditate so that I could get started with my Plan B. Meditation does not come easy for me, even after years of daily practice. I’m finding, though, that I can sit with myself for longer and longer periods of time without my mind being pulled in the direction of all the other things that I could be doing.

But on this day, when the “all” of the day seemed to be wrapped up in the “all” of the rain, I decided to sit for a shorter-than-usual spell. Ten minutes. No more. I had things to do on my Plan B.

I was drawn to an 11-minute mindfulness session. Surely, I could spare an extra minute, especially since the title tugged at me: “Human Being, Not Human Doing.”

“If you’re like most people, you probably feel like you have to be constantly doing something.”

I was stunned. How on earth did acclaimed meditation coach Lynne Goldberg know so perfectly how I was feeling? How I feel so often?

In her meditation session, she explores the roots of our obsession with doing, tracing the origins all the way back to our childhoods when others praised us for doing things that we were good at doing. Art. Dance. Music. Sports. Wordplay.  She continues her exploration–even into relationships–noting that the praise we receive for the things that we do begins to validate us and our self-worth.

And then she drives home her point. Validation through doing is external, controlled by others. It leaves us with the feeling that we have to continue to do–to perform–in order to get those accolades. To feel loved. To maintain that sense of self-worth. Interestingly enough, we’re not even aware that it’s happening.

“At your essence, you are a human being, not a human doing. You are loved and worthy and enough exactly as you are. The only approval that you need is that of your own.”

“Well, of course,” I say to myself. The notion of loving yourself–of approving yourself–goes all the way back to the ancient Greeks even if it did not enter mainstream psyche and pop culture until the Beat Generation of the 1950s and the Hippies of the 1960s.

More, I’m not quite certain that I agree with Goldberg’s tack of tracing our emphasis on doing to the praise that we received from doing things well as long ago as our infancy. It seems to me that we need to consider other possibilities. The joy and love of work. The joy and love of doing. The joy and love of creating. The internal, self-validation that doing things well brings us even when others are totally unaware that we’re doing them.

But I’m not going to quibble over any of those possible disagreements right now.

For now, I’m just glad that I stumbled upon Goldberg’s meditation.

For now, I think that I will revisit King’s recommended reading lists and start to read–or reread–one of the books that I find there.

For now, I think that I will count the raindrops as they fall off the scalloped edges of my Asian patio umbrella.

For now, I think that I will stop the pendulum on my grandfather clock.

For now, I think that I will continue lounging in my azure blue linen bathrobe as noon approaches and as rain continues.

For now, I think that scrambled eggs on toast might be perfect for dinner.

For now, I think that I’m really enjoying doing nothing more than just being.