Today, while attending a speaking function, I experienced a textbook action-synchro. Consider this an object lesson of sorts.
It started with a note.
I kept thinking, was the thing. I was listening to the speaker, to be sure -- paying rather close attention, in fact, just not undivided attention, that which one's schoolteachers might've once demanded. For were I stop thinking, I might forget the very important things I was thinking about. Thus I was forced to keep thinking, and my attention remained divided.
And that's why I needed to write a note, to immerse myself fully in the function which I was so respectfully attending.
Having made the mistake of not bringing along my trusty notepad, I cast about for some paper and a writing utensil, any utensil -- and there, a pen in the behind-the-seat pocket of the new row up, and there, a flier for an upcoming music show, its back attractively blank. Perfecto.
I blottered the paper over my knee --
Uncapped the pen --
Dimpled the paper and eeked out half a letter --
Precisely as the speaker said "make those notes."
I smiled broadly, laughing inside as I consigned my pestersome thoughts to paper. After those, however, I stole another couple seconds to write yet another, new note: "'make those notes' synchro," to remind me to log this latest in a string of action synchronicities.
* * *
Definition #2: the "thought synchronicity"/"thought-synchro" - just like the action synchro, except with external, objective reality reflected in one's thoughts, as to be even more jarring and surreal, sometimes to the point of catapulting the experiencer into something like a living dream.
And now, for your consideration, a case-in-point for the thought synchronicity -- which, as it were, occurred immediately after the "make-your-notes" incident quoted above.
So there I am, quietly buzzing after hearing "make those notes" at the exact moment I put pen to paper for the express purpose of note-making. Then, in that wowed afterglow, I was struck with a thought: of how electrically surreal a synchronistic experience feels in the moment, that same "numinosity" that Jung and countless others have described -- or, perhaps, a transcendence.
Yes, a transcendent moment. That's how such a good, striking synchronicity felt, I thought just after writing my note.
Right as I thought this, within the space of milliseconds, the speaker then launched into a new subject: "The transcendent moment," she said, introducing us to the topic. As it were, it was what she'd been about to advise us to make notes about.
Upon hearing this, I only wrote a new note: "'transcendental moment,'" with an arrow snaking up to that for "make those notes." This one, however, I was able to do quickly, too fast for my attention to divide; I hadn't yet put away my notepaper from before.
From there, I was at last able to devote my undivided attention to the rest of the speaker's message, my smile widening as much as politeness allowed.