I’ve often pondered whether synchronicities are merely coincidences. While Google may suggest they’re related, synchronicities carry a weight of “meaning” that’s both perplexing and disconcerting.

I find it unsettling when seemingly disparate events align to convey significance, especially when they could easily be dismissed as random or even “cartoonish.”

With my daughter and her husband visiting during a layover from New Zealand to NYC, and my wife away assisting our other daughter, I’m left alone, perhaps more susceptible to flights of fancy—or at the very least, awkwardly stable.

Driving with my departing daughter to Alameda, where they plan to catch an early morning flight, dinner plans were thwarted by a combination of rain and nighttime driving—two elements I’m not keen on facing simultaneously.

Opting to depart between storms while daylight lingered, I found myself amidst the peak of commute traffic, a scenario I’m accustomed to handling, so long as it moves at a steady pace.

Navigating through Alameda’s maze of commuter traffic and underwater tubes, I found myself queued up for the Webster Street tube. As traffic slowed, I seized the opportunity to cue up some music on my phone, settling on a blast from the past—“Alley Oop” from 1960.

Though it had been decades since I last heard it, I called upon Siri to play the tune. Yet, as seconds ticked by, it became evident Siri was struggling to connect. Did she need the artist’s name? The dilemma was real—I couldn’t recall. Was it “Sam the Sham, and the Pharaohs”? My memory was foggy, clouded by the dozens of one-hit wonders from that era.

As I attempted to clarify, the unexpected unfolded. Just as I uttered “Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs,” a towering figure emerged in the tunnel ahead of me. His outstretched arms and striped robe gave him an uncanny resemblance to Moses, especially with the cars parting to the left and right. But wait, he had a headdress and kohl eye makeup. Not Moses, but Pharaoh!

There was no logical explanation for his sudden appearance, no empty vehicle he emerged from. Was he one of the Pharaohs from my half-remembered band? The mind plays tricks in the murky depths of exhaust fumes, beneath forty feet of water.

As he knelt before a passing Tesla, motioning as if in supplication, chaos ensued. Swerving to avoid him, the Tesla nearly collided with the tunnel wall, providing me with a narrow window to slip past on the right. The cramped confines of the tunnel, coupled with the unexpected presence of a Pharaoh, made for a surreal experience.

Glancing in my mirror, I verified he was still there, and ahead I saw the tunnel’s end approaching. And just as abruptly as the Pharaoh appeared, the unmistakable strains of “Alley Oop” filled the car—not by the expected artists, but by the Hollywood Argyles.

Coincidence may no longer have a place in my vocabulary, but synchronicity lingers—a reminder of the inexplicable connections that weave through the tapestry of life.

In my world there are no coincidences, only undiscovered meanings. If synchronicity embraces that then I’m left with the “cartoonish” puzzle of my thoughts and the timing.

It’s almost like a test flight, “I can do this, and other things, prepare to believe.”