The Events

Throughout my life I’ve experienced quite a few strange events. The first one occurred when I was a child on a family trip. My mother, two brothers, and I had finally convinced my father to take us to Washington D.C. on a road trip. After our visit to the capital, Mom wanted to see Williamsburg, Virginia where she read from a brochure, “Colonial Williamsburg is where colonial history comes to life with beautifully restored buildings, costumed interpreters, and streets that look just like they did back in 18^th century America. Even as a child I loved history and historical sights, but Williamsburg was boring. 

My boredom was based on strong feelings of déjà vu. I knew exactly where everything was and everything there felt so familiar. So I was disappointed, and knew exactly the location of blacksmith shop. 

“This is not like you, Michael. I figured you’d love this place.” The disappointment enveloped her face. “I’ve been here before,” I said. And to prove it, I said, “I bet I can find the blacksmith shop, fast.” 

Doubt and worry crossed my mother’s brow. 

“You don’t believe me. Just walk past that cobblestone building, turn left, and the blacksmith shop is right there.” 

She sent my twin brother to check it out. Two minutes later he returned nodding his head. “How did you know that?” 

Seventeen years later a different experience blew my mind even more. At the time, I was a middle school teacher driving from my job in Monterey Park to my apartment in Santa Monica. The traffic was in gridlock when a picture of a five-year old girl filled the windshield; and just as quickly, evaporated. I got the distinct impression that little girl would one day become my child. 

A decade later my five-year old daughter, Channie, showed me an envelope she had brought home from kindergarten. It was her first official school picture. I opened the envelope, pulled out the picture and almost plotzed. It was the same picture I had seen ten years earlier on my car’s windshield. 

Years later, when I was fifty years old, I was adjusting to an over-night hearing loss that left my right ear deaf and my left seriously impaired. I was extremely lonely, a typical result from deafness. My cousin Joni suggested I attend a self-help group meeting and perhaps I would meet someone there. It was worth a shot.

After a bit of research, I found a group with the apt name SHHH (Self-Help for the Hard of Hearing). I decided to attend their November meeting. I tried to find the place but got lost. Before the December meeting, I scoped the area out in broad daylight and was ready.

 It was fortuitous I missed the November get-together. She wasn’t there. But Jila did attend the December meeting, and it was love at first sight for the both of us. We were together for 16 years until her passing in 2015 from colon cancer. I know myself. If I had attended the November meeting, I doubt I would have come to the one in December. Was this fate, karma, or just good luck? You decide. 

When Jila died in January of 2015 I was devastated. I tried to keep my normal schedule, but it was hard. However, I continued my Sunday visits to Channie, who was now the mother of a three-year old toddler, Arielle. I sat on the floor with my granddaughter trying my best to play a game with her. She was prattling away in baby chatter I couldn’t comprehend, even with my hearing aids activated. Also, my depression was pretty severe. Suddenly, Ari turned to me and in a distinct voice and clarity not normal for a young child she enunciated every word to make sure I would understand her message, “NANA IS HAPPY NOW!” Ari turned away and went back to playing with her toys. 

I sat agape and then cried. Through Ari, Jila told me she was good. Relieved, I soon began writing the book that would become my award-winning novel about Jila’s life, The Lip Reader.

Three months later I moved into a condo a stone’s throw from Jila’s old apartment building. A few weeks after settling in I took a nap with my dog, Scribble, lying next to me. Then I felt something odd, looked up, and saw a figure walking near my closet. I got out of bed and approached her. It was Jila rewarding me with her glowing smile. She took my hand, escorted me back to my bed, and we lay down staring into each other’s eyes grinning. Everything shattered when Scribble barked. 

Eight years later I traveled to Seoul, South Korea for the wedding of two former roommates. I arrived at the hotel safely, but on the day of the wedding, I couldn’t locate the bus that would take me to the wedding. Instead, I wandered around the city for hours first trying to find my ride, and when that failed, traveling back to my hotel. From day’s use, my cell phone was dead. I had tried my best to follow the directions, but Korean was Greek to me and the locals, though kind, weren’t helpful because I couldn’t understand them. 

I stood pondering my options when I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder pushing me in an easterly direction. I grabbed for the hand, but nothing nor anyone was there. Was that Jila’s hand guiding me? It was worth a shot so I walked in the direction she pushed me and found a hotel where I could use the bathroom, charge my cell, and get directions to my hotel, which turned out to be a block away. 

The next day, I refused to sit in my hotel room when I had a country to discover. I attempted to find a Korean BBQ restaurant but couldn’t locate it and settled for Shake Shack. After stuffing myself with hamburgers, French fries, and a coke, I headed back to the hotel. Again, I got lost. And it was dark.

 Frustrated, I sat on a bench trying to figure out the GPS when two young men appeared. One of them offered his assistance. I got really lucky. He was a graduate of the University of California at Irvine and spoke English fluently. He walked me back to my hotel, which was at least a 45-minute hike. Even today I refer to him as my angel. 

Recently, my dog Scribble died. She was a 14 ½ year old Shorkie—a Shih Tzu-Yorkie mix. She was a wonderful companion, smart, well trained, and loved by everyone. Do dogs have souls? Is Scribble safe?  I turned her over to the vet for cremation, but worried about her soul. 

A week after Scribble’s death I turned my computer off for the night. My cell phone, inactive and dark, rested nearby. I looked for Scribble, who always sat near me, but she wasn’t there. I cried. Then the cell phone blinked on with Scribble’s picture, then off. She was telling me she’s fine and hanging out with Jila, who always loved her. 

Perhaps we’ve all experienced moments that seem to defy easy explanation: an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, an unexpected encounter, a dream that lingers, or help that appears just when all seems lost. Maybe we dismiss those moments too quickly. I no longer do. If you’ve experienced something similar, I’d love to hear your story in the comments below.