I absolutely believe the oft-repeated saying that we attract people and experiences to act as mirrors when we are ready to see some aspect of ourselves reflected by the outer world.
Today, the mirror showed me what many would call a “conspiracy theorist.”
It started innocently enough.
“Don’t the onions smell wonderful?” a woman’s voice said in the produce aisle at Trader Joe’s.
I glanced at her and smiled. “Yes, they do, and the garlic too. Reminds me of Gilroy.”
“Gilroy, the gateway to San Jose,” she commented, then edged closer and murmured, “The flatlands of San Jose used to be covered with cherry trees, back in the 1960s. And then IBM wanted to import 25,000 workers from back east and they cut down the trees and built cheap housing tracts for the workers.”
I nodded agreement. “I remember the tracts.”
“Did you know, those ID badges they use at IBM? They aren’t for identification.” She nodded sharply and leaned in even closer. “They’re to check for radiation levels.”
“Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” I replied, and wondered how I could gently end the conversation, which was becoming uncomfortable.
Under the discomfort, a soupçon of awareness rippled. This woman, with just a few words, had as good as waved a banner that announced, “Conspiracy Theorist! Listener beware.”
Because…how I cringe with recognition…I’ve found myself casually mentioning similarly “crazy” things to perfect strangers over the last year.
Covid is a bioweapon! The elite are trying to wipe us out! They outright stole the presidential election with their rigged polling places and electronic manipulation from overseas!
I was either unaware of, or ignored, the subtle panic in the listener’s eye, and the incremental manner in which they moseyed away, smiling placatingly.
If we were in a cartoon, the thought bubble would’ve said, “What a nut. Glad I don’t have to listen to her all day long.”
Not that I disbelieved my fellow shopper today. I’m pretty sure I’ve read about those ID badges on the websites I’ve poured over in search of Truth.
I’m not sure why this woman chose me to share confidences, hovering at my elbow and murmuring about IBM’s ersatz ID badges as I moved past the bakery racks. She must’ve sensed a kindred soul; surely she didn’t talk with everyone like this.
I finally said, “I’m sorry, but I have to focus on shopping…” because in truth, she was distracting me.
Neat as a quarter horse rounding a barrel, she nipped away and strode off, announcing, “That’s fine, I have to go get my organic…” and I couldn’t hear the rest.
I looked after her for a moment. She looked completely normal. No slogan-emblazoned teeshirt signaling an outside-the-box thought process beneath her gray and gold curls.
Would I have chosen her, if I’d wanted to strike up a conversation about Covid and election fraud? Could I send out some psychic radar and have it bounce back “positive” for openness to Ascension / Spirituality / Accountability / Disclosure subjects that the majority of people would flee rather than face?
I continued shopping and eventually made my way home, checking in the black plate glass mirror of the massive storefront to see if there was anything unusual about my appearance. No neon sign declaiming Conspiracy Theorist!, no slogan-riddled teeshirt.
I didn’t see my new acquaintance leave the store, but if I spot her again I might ask what she thinks about the post-Covid debacle, or the chances of Governor Newsom being recalled in September. I anticipate a lively conversation with someone who speaks my language, and even if slightly distorted, mirrors my inner self, my sometimes hidden soul, back to me for further contemplation.
Contemplation and, more than that, acceptance. Surely that’s what we most hope to see when we look in a mirror: acceptance of what it reflects.