40,800 students were enrolled at Michigan State University in the fall of 1969. I was one of them starting my freshman year. I lived in the twelve-story dorm on the far eastern edge of campus known as Hubbard North. 1,100 students were housed and fed there.
I had an eight-o’clock lecture every morning in the Chemistry building, which was an easy 15-minute walk from the dorm. And, every morning before heading out, I made sure I was in the breakfast line. That’s right; every morning. As you may know, room and board was paid in advance, so if I skipped a meal, it was like throwing money away. And I worked hard to earn that money.
Behind the food counter, there was one particular person – a co-ed – who, unlike the rest of the servers, always had a smile to share with everyone in the cafeteria line. At that time of the morning, it was nice to receive a smile, and I looked forward to hers. Naturally, I returned the gesture.
For dorm meals on Sundays, only breakfast and dinner were provided. For supper … you were on your own. One’s choice for supper was either (1) find an eatery off campus, or (2) buy something from the grill in the dorm’s lower level.
On one particular evening … perhaps because it was raining or I was deeply engrossed in memorizing polar covalent bonding of carbon chains … I chose the grill for my dining venue and happened to cross paths with her. After recognition, hello’s, and other casual pleasantries, we started talking about what first-year students talked about. Where are you from? What’s your major? What did you do last summer?
To that last question, she said, “I learned to waterski!” That topic instantly became a shared experience to ask further questions. It was, after all, an activity I had been doing for years with my father and siblings at a local inland lake near where my parent’s built their summer cottage on Lake Michigan.
Naturally, I responded, “That’s great. Whereabouts did you learn?”
She replied, “You wouldn’t know. It was at a small lake in Michigan near where my boyfriend’s parents have a cottage.”
I asked, “What’s the name of the lake.”
She said, “Stony Lake.”
Hmm…that name could mean any number of Stony or Stoney Lakes in Michigan.
I replied, “No kidding! There’s a Stony Lake just north of where my parents have their cottage … at Mich-Chi-Won Beach.
She replied, “That’s where my boyfriend’s parents have their cottage!”
“Who’s your boyfriend?”
She said “Bubb Freed.”
I said, “No way! Bubb and I kinda grew up together there…since we were about six years old.
She then asked, “Wait. Are you Mark Bearss?”
[Queue the music from “The Twilight Zone.”]
Think about it. 40,000+ students on a campus that covers 8.1 square miles. I lived in a dorm with 1,100 other students. What were the odds? Was this Coincidence? Or was it Synchronicity?
The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung was the first to coin that term around 1930 and professed it occurred when random events coincide or chance meetings like the one I just described occur for a specific purpose. They are not just a coincidence: They happen for a reason. But for what specific purpose? Some regard crossing paths with others as opportunities to learn life’s lessons. Others describe it as a “meaningful coincidence” where an inner thought or feeling aligns perfectly with an event in the outer physical world. An example is when a friend or relative you haven’t seen in a long time, but were thinking deeply about, happens to call close to or at that moment. Another example is seeing the same numbers, like the time 11:11 on your digital clock. By the way, in numerology, 11 represents intuition, insight and enlightenment. 11:11 is considered a symbol of spiritual awakening, or a cosmic “well done” from the universe.
Back in 1969, I had no idea who Carl Jung was, never even heard of Synchronicity, nor formulated an explanation for that chance encounter. Back then, it was a coincidence. The lesson would come later in life, which it did. Today, I regard these events with much greater credence.
