The Realness of Synchronicity: A True Story


Synchronicity is real – and extraordinarily powerful. I have experienced countless synchronicities in my life, but one of the most profound to date, is the most recent, which delivered itself in the form of an email I opened late one night this week.

A couple of weeks before receiving this email, my Mum came to visit me. In one of our many conversations, she mentioned in passing that she had found a notebook of mine, which I thought had been lost. I instantly knew which notebook she was talking about.

In that notebook, my twelve-year-old self had written various observations of the teachers in my school. I don’t remember any specific observations, but I do recall that some of them were quite wicked. I also remember that these observations were informed by my perspective as a young person relating to somewhat distant adults who seemed to have lost the ability to see the world through the eyes of the children they were meant to teach. Perhaps they were restricted by a ‘professional’ veneer which they felt necessary to maintain in order to assert their authority. Perhaps they were just jaded.

Mr. Drury was different – he was briefly at our school as a supply teacher but despite the short time he spent in my life, he made a huge impression on me. I vaguely recall aspects of his physical appearance; a rebellious shock of curly brown hair, eyes which brimmed with effervescent mischief and the slightly dishevelled dress sense favoured by eccentric academic types. Erudite and witty, with the refreshing ability to speak to younger people without condescension, his sense of fun characterised his French lessons, which my classmates and I looked forward to attending (although French was never my strongest subject and my pronunciation is still appalling).

During his short time at my school, Mr. Drury had somehow gotten hold of my incendiary notebook. I don’t remember how, but I do recall that when he gave it back to me, he had written comments alongside my various scribblings. I had anticipated a telling off, but to my surprise, his words were encouraging and enthusiastic regarding my ability to write. I acknowledge him as my first champion, so the prospect of revisiting this long lost notebook was an exciting one, and of course set me to wondering what had become of Mr. Drury.

And so to the serendipitous email. Late one night this week, I was finding it difficult to sleep and so was compelled, uncharacteristically to check my emails. As I looked through them, a particular email, titled ‘The Cherub’ caught my attention. Initially, since the name of the sender was unfamiliar, I dismissed it as spam and considered deleting it, but was intrigued by the vague familiarity of the title. Overcome with curiosity, I opened it.

From the first couple of sentences; prose infused with genuine warmth, light and humour, I knew it was him. In a state of giddy incredulity, I read how Mr. Drury had found a poem that I had written amongst his memorabilia. He went on to explain how he had – in his words – treasured my poem, and wondered over the years why I had chosen to share it with him. I had been inspired to write the poem in question, ‘The Cherub’, after his encouraging words in my notebook and he had been the obvious choice for me to share it with.

Writing ‘The Cherub’, had been my first conscious encounter with Creative Flow. I vividly remember how the idea for the poem and the subsequent words had seemingly come from ‘nowhere’, through me and onto that piece of paper. Like the notebook, I thought that I had also lost the poem but Mr. Drury had kept a copy which he attached to the email.

As I scrolled down the page to reveal the poem I had written all those years ago, tears filled my eyes. There she was – and now – here she is, my twelve-year-old self with her uncertain handwriting and with absolutely no idea that she would someday be right here to remind the forty-year-old me to celebrate my unique creativity and my ability to express it – and to demonstrate how seemingly small gestures, from one person to another can ripple across half a lifetime.



  1. by Keith On August 2, 2015 at 22:11

    🙂 x

  2. by Debbie On September 9, 2015 at 18:09

    What you have written about “Mr Drury'” has brought tears to my eyes, as his wife you have confirmed what I always knew – that he was an inspiring teacher. I only wish he’d been my French teacher at school, my French I’m sure would have been much better.
    You sum him up well, although the “slightly dishevelled” is a very polite way of saying “he’s scruffy”! Apart from less curly hair, now mainly grey he has not changed much at all.

  3. by Denise Prentice On September 9, 2015 at 22:02

    Thanks Debbie, he was a very inspiring teacher (and undoubtedly scruffy!) It’s so lovely to hear from you!

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