I am not a woo-woo kind of person. I don’t light scented candles for atmospheric effect, I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits, heaven or hell (except as they present themselves in my everyday life, for example, the heaven of a dog’s kiss, the hell of laundry), and I certainly never stand in front of a mirror murmuring warm affirmations to my reflection, hoping to one day believe my own hype. I also generally think the universe functions of its own accord, independently of and without concern for me (or anyone else). I’m not suggesting the universe is a jerk, just that it is sizable, and has other things to do.

Recently, however, I’ve been forced to consider that the universe and I may be in cahoots (much like my mother’s Facebook page and her printer, which, she is certain, can’t function independently of one other). I have thought this before—that the universe and I might be communicating by way of a secret channel—but I find stupidity uncomfortable, and so I decided to stop thinking it. But that didn’t make weird, coincidental stuff stop happening.

For example, there was the time I decided (silently) to commit my life to pottery, only to be offered a free kiln the next day. There were several times, during the writing of my memoir, that people I was writing about but hadn’t seen or heard from in decades suddenly showed up in my inbox and my grocery store. There was the day I decided, based on nothing, that my memoir’s soon-to-be publisher, Little Feather Books, was a sham operation, and emailed them my suspicions. As I awaited their response, I discovered, under the very picnic table at which I was seated, a little feather, a discovery that was followed, immediately, by a kind email assuring me the publisher was legit.

All of this is perhaps why I was delighted to read an article about three scientists who are sharing this year’s Nobel Prize in physics for their research into something called entanglement, which is “…the ability of separated objects to share a condition or state, behaving like a single unit, even when they are far apart.” Einstein called it “spooky action at a distance.” Which is what I will forevermore call the uncannily coincidental stuff that happens when a universe does not mind its own business.

This past summer, I returned to painting after many years away from it. Nothing had changed, exactly; I simply felt that it was time to get back in the studio. So I cleared out some space in the garage. I bought several canvases, and replenished my paints and brushes. But as soon as I got started, I found I had many questions. As I only had one gallery, how many paintings should I do? Sure, I was having fun now, but how would I keep up the momentum? Wouldn’t a deadline, or an exhibit of some kind, offer structure, give me something or someplace tangible to paint for?

About two weeks into painting, a message popped up on Instagram, where I’d been posting photos of my progress. It was an offer to exhibit my work at the community arts center on Signal Mountain. Was I interested? Yes, I was interested! But more importantly, I was weirded out. If gallery owners on a mountain miles away from mine somehow knew I needed a deadline and a space to exhibit my work, then who else—or what else, for that matter—is tuned in to the random things I think and do?

Some people like the idea that we are all interconnected, that the fabric of the universe is porous, and that everything we do has an impact, and is felt somewhere in the world that is not the next room. Call me cynical, call me an isolationist, but I find the idea of my pebble rippling your pond vaguely co-dependent. I prefer to believe that there is private space within the contours of my mind that others are not privy to, and that my actions will generally not have consequences beyond the realm of my own county.

Unfortunately, the universe, that big, untrustworthy jerk, keeps suggesting otherwise.