Synchronicity (syn·chro·nic·i·ty /siNGkrəˈnisədē/)
The simultaneous occurrence of causally unrelated events and the belief that the simultaneity has meaning beyond mere coincidence;
the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.
The concept of synchronicity was developed in the early 1900s by psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung. Jung defined synchronicity as “meaningful coincidences." This is a story about just that.
Where do we begin?
Her Heartbeat Farm is nestled on a mountainside along Crooked Creek, off of Bat Cave Rd in Old Fort, North Carolina. The quaint downtown area was built on the banks of Mills Creek and is among the oldest settlements in the region. Old Fort has seen its share of ups and downs long before its incorporation in 1892. The land is marred by eras of conflict and destruction - Spanish settlers in the 1500s, then British colonists, slavery, the flood of 1916, segregation, and the long, painful process of integration. In recent years, Old Fort has become a budding community and is now home to a new generation of small-business owners who have contributed to its revitalization.
I have driven to visit Marty and Wind Carrier more times than I can count. The road feels familiar now - so much so that muscle memory makes way for my mind to wander. I've grown fond of the winding road and the time and space it gives me to sort out the busyness of my brain. To access the Farm, one must drive over a curiously narrow handbuilt bridge. I always hold my breath when crossing. In the Summer, the farm is obscured by the bright green leaves of Oak and Elm trees which line the ever-singing creek below the little bridge.
Every year, Winter winds disassemble that verdant veil, leaf by leaf, revealing the charming assemblage that is Her Heartbeat Farm - a white cottage, several chicken houses, the cheery red workshop where Wind crafts leather goods, and the terraced garden, which is home to some of the most delicious Blackberries I've ever tasted. The hand-built structures and the bountiful garden represent a lifetime of intention, ingenuity, sweat equity, and the fruits of a true labor of love. The Farm is the physical embodiment of Marty and Wind Carrier's life-long work - Stewardship of people and land, and perpetual communion with The Creator.
Marty and Wind are magic. They're the type of characters that appear in well-loved stories. They are gentle people, and they are among the many "Elders" in my own story. Marty is a nurturing, effervescent Mother-figure, whose long silver locks, fair skin, and melodic voice seem incongruent with the grit required by her vocation. She spends her days tending to the farm and animals, running her multi-farm CSA. She has been a presence at our little Farmers Market for years, and I look forward to the Saturdays when Her Heartbeat Farm is in attendance. Marty's joyful disposition sets the tone for our mornings at the Market. Her towering, seemingly stoic husband, Wind, who spends his days listening to music and honing his many skills, is the more reserved of the pair. His piercing blue eyes have their own story to tell - but before a story can be accessed, one must endure what feels like an assessment of character. Wind speaks with precision, often through a wry smile, indicating his position and perspective. He does not waste or mince words. He upholds the wisdom of ancestors and children, alike. He is direct and focused, and after a little while, he'll say something humorous, pose an existential question, and let out a chuckle, which makes his long, snow-white beard and crystalline eyes dance.
On Friday, September 27th, after a week of constant rain, Her Heartbeat Farm lost power and communication. By that afternoon, Crooked Creek flowed an astonishing four feet over the bridge to the farm. Rushing waters ushered branches, logs, and bits of neighboring properties down the creek, washing everything but the steel skeleton of the bridge downstream. By Saturday evening, 81-year-old Wind Carrier reconstructed the bridge, allowing them to get in and out of the Farm.
In the days after Helene, I tried unsuccessfully to call everyone in our network. With power and internet outages all over the region, and with only the knowledge that the damage that I witnessed on our farm in Marion paled in comparison to the rest of the area, I wrestled with all the possibilities. When something like this happens, it's hard to put into words the kind of gymnastics the human brain can perform. All worst-case scenarios come to mind. At some point, I surrendered to the possibility that those I had come to know and love so well, had been lost to the storm. Then, after over a week of trying, we finally reached Wind and Marty. Of course, my frantic state was met with words of reassurance. Who was I to worry about farmers with so many more years of experience and an abundance of wisdom?
There's more to say about all that transpired in the days that followed. But those stories will have to wait for now.
On October 8th, my husband and I had been independently running supplies into neighboring towns all day long. At 5 pm I told him I was hungry, that we were out of food, and that I was tapped out for the day. We hopped in the car, held hands, and let out a simultaneous and deep exhale. Within minutes he was on the phone again, preoccupied with another emergency, and I had just received a phone call of my own - a request for three hundred eggs to feed first responders breakfast by 7 am the next day. Without hesitation, I forwarded the request to Marty. She replied: "I may have at least 200. I cannot wash them all by morning...I cannot deliver." Within a few minutes, we ended up at the local grocery store. The shelves were bare. The essentials were mostly gone - there was little bread, no water, no milk, and of course, there were no eggs. Not even a few dozen to supplement what we could get locally.
In the meantime, we drove around, in search of a hot meal, and trying to solve the other problem. I walked into our local spot for Ramen and Pho Soup, placed an order, sat down, and returned to text messages, emails, and calls. More bad news.
Then, good news! Another message from Marty. "Just did a rough count. Likely have 300 eggs."
The day and all of its challenges and frustrations washed over me. I broke into tears, then quickly reminded myself that I was in a public space. I took a deep breath, looked up, and saw one of our regular patrons from the Market. Austin, a father of three, who lives less than a block from our beloved market grounds, just happened to be on his way from Morganton to Black Mountain, when he decided to stop for dinner. We had not been in communication since before Helene ravaged Western North Carolina - it had been three weeks, in fact... and suddenly, there we were, sitting across from one another.
"How are you? I'm so glad you're alive. This is wild, isn't it?" I said. We shared our experiences and discussed what brought us to the restaurant and then I asked Austin to help. Within a few minutes, Austin was on his way to Her Heartbeat Farm. The setting sun and the number of downed trees, compromised bridges, and washed-out roads meant that Austin's drive would be dark, unfamiliar, long, and winding through the ravaged Pisgah National Forest.
But, at 8:34 PM, I received a text from Marty indicating Austin had made it to the farm and was on his way up the mountain with exactly three hundred eggs. Three hundred farm-fresh eggs were laid and collected in the aftermath of the storm were being delivered to deserving bellies. That night, I received a sweet text message with photos - a thank you. Our organization was able to purchase those three hundred eggs so that Marty and her precious hens were fully compensated for their hard work, and our first responders were well-fed.
I like to think that "synchronicity" had something to do with all this. That driving around almost aimlessly and in a panic, the delay at the grocery store, and our timely arrival at the little hole-in-the-wall Japanese restaurant - which perfectly aligned with Austin's unplanned stop for dinner - was part of some big, beautiful plan. I cling to this romantic, albeit illogical notion because it gives me comfort in these trying times.
I have grown weary in this bitter-sweet era of turning, unveiling, disassembling, and reconstructing. Everything has changed - the land, the people, the mountains, the creeks, and the streams have all shifted. Passing through the ravaged town of Old Fort isn't a rhythmic or enjoyable process now. The streets are lined with piles of mud - mixed with the remnants of people's lives. Heirlooms and antiques mixed with shards of glass, pipes, and siding make the familiar path feel like a wasteland. The long drives and rare quiet moments don't seem to lend enough space for untangling my thoughts, worries, plans, dreams, and mourning.
But the luminous and wise Marty Carrier reminds us that we must: "Know our Magic. Feel the tenderness... and be strong, walking in beauty." And so it is by some stroke of luck - some synchronous mechanism or force - we are here together in this messy, wild, turbulent time... among magic people and places.
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