Summer 1969, Age 17
I grabbed my heavy duffle bag, shuffled along the narrow aisle with the other passengers and stepped off the bus into a crowd. I was starving and needed to pee badly. Everyone pushed and shoved; no one smiled or made eye contact. Half a day ago I’d packed my bag in the caravan and now, here I was, in Dublin, surrounded by strangers. At least my body was here, demanding to pee and eat—but my soul seemed to have got lost somewhere on the journey.
On the bus ride I’d been engrossed in The Spirit of Zen by Alan Watts. He’d enticed me into the world of Zen Buddhism with its zazen meditation, mind-bending koans and the promise of sudden enlightenment. In contrast, the frantic city energy pulled me down to earth with a bump. My mind whirled at the thought of being alone in a big alien city: how was I going to get by?
Get hold of your self! With a mental slap around the head, I snapped back into the present. After the toilet, I hoisted my bag onto my shoulders, found a newspaper kiosk, bought a Picnic bar and consulted a street map. Now to locate my new residence: the Protestant Boys Hostel on Lord Edward Street.
Orienting in Dublin was not difficult. The stinky pea-green river Liffey flowed East-West through the city center; the main thoroughfare crossed it at O’Connell Bridge. Mother had warned me of Dublin pickpockets so I stayed vigilant. In the middle of the bridge squatted a grubby flaxen-haired woman—a tinker most likely—holding a shawl-wrapped infant in one arm. Her hand stretched out to me and I instinctively clutched my slack wallet.
Dublin’s classical architecture was elegant and imposing, the streets wide and crammed with traffic. Pedestrians ran willy-nilly across the street in front of cars and busses, narrowly escaping being run down. It was busy, noisy and chaotic and I badly needed a place to rest and recover.
After a long walk, I arrived at an imposing redbrick Victorian building with ornate windows directly across from Christchurch Cathedral. Mother had made arrangements with the chaplain for me to stay there—a hostel catering to young men of Anglo-Irish lineage. She had led the chaplain to believe we were avid Protestants; our English accents helped with the scam.
Inside the double doors, a wide oak staircase dominated the gloomy entrance hall. To the left was a narrow reception area with two boys my age chatting. I lingered in the hallway waiting for assistance but they ignored me. Feeling irritated, I finally interrupted. “Excuse me, is this the boys hostel?”
One boy looked over casually and answered, “Yep”; he turned away and continued talking.
I hated these awkward social situations, like shards of glass beneath my skin. I wanted to yell at him, humiliate him with perfectly chosen words—but I couldn’t. My need for self-control gripped me tight.
After a frustrating eternity, the youth turned to me. “Are you here to stay? What’s your name? I’ll see if you’re in the book.”
I gave my name, and he opened a big ledger.
“Yep, here you are, Owen Evans. You’re up in bedroom six.”
In a rapid singsong, he recited the house rules: “Breakfast and dinner in the dining room—no lunch. Fees are two pounds ten shillings a week. Put the money in an envelope with your name on it and drop it off by Friday. Doors are locked at eleven.” He turned back to his friend.
Unnerved by the chilly welcome, I stood perplexed, not knowing what to do next. Obviously, no one cared who I was or what I did. Was this the way the Protestant elite behaved: snooty and detached? How I wished for the easy fellowship of the Boys Home in Cork.
I wandered through the large living rooms—one with comfortable chairs, another with a full-size English billiard table centered under a high arched ceiling. It reminded me of the Billiard Room at Ffrwd, a fascinating place with billiard cues arranged on chestnut paneled racks, fox heads lining the walls. I stood and watched as two boys knocked colored balls against each other and into the pockets. I liked the look of the game—simple and straightforward.
Unpacking my bag in room six, a long, high chamber with five beds, I took out my precious possessions: the Book of Changes and the Spirit of Zen. On a search for anything Oriental, I’d found the latter slim volume in Dungarvan library and slipped it under my arm—following Mother’s example. Who would miss it? Buddhism had captured my interest: the Zen variety was strange, but it steered me in the right direction—a finger pointing at the moon.
Unpacked, I had to face my dreaded tasks: visit Mother and look for a job. After a long walk down Dame Street and past Trinity College, I bought a newspaper and found the yellow-and-blue double-decker bus to St Luke’s hospital. Since Ardkeen, I’d become more comfortable around hospitals. Mother’s ward was in a small, bright annex that looked out onto a lawn set about with big trees. She was talking to a young woman in the next bed when I arrived.
“Owen, you finally made it. I was beginning to worry.” She seemed animated but either the cancer or radiotherapy was taking its toll; her face looked sucked-in and there were dark circles under her eyes. I gave her a hug and described my journey, making it sound more difficult than it really was—appeasing my guilt or soothing her disappointment?
Mother introduced me to the young woman who said a weak hello and wearily lay back against her pillows. Mother leaned over and whispered, “She’s got lung cancer and the treatment’s not going well, poor thing. Three very young children—she’s terribly worried about them.”
Mother’s compassion surprised me. But then I could never predict her mood shifts: one moment sweetness, the next second vitriol.
“How is the radiotherapy? Is it helping?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem like much. Every few days, they take me to the radiation room and point a big machine at my tummy. It makes a humming noise—and that’s it. I don’t have much appetite but at least I’m losing weight!” She chuckled and patted her shrunken abdomen.
We spread the newspaper on her bed and looked through the personnel wanted section. There were not many job ads.
“Have they told you how long you’re staying?”
“I think it’ll be at least a few weeks. You should apply for everything and see what you can get.” She took a pen and started to circle phone numbers for me to call.
Making endless phone calls, talking to strangers only to be rejected—the mere though of it made my stomach clench.
“Leave out the hotel jobs—I’m fed up with hotels. Just circle the easy ones, like cleaning or something.”
After visiting hours, I took my list back to the hostel and made calls from the phone in the lobby. After a few snubs, I got an interview in a couple of days. More relaxed, I ate an institutional meal in the dining room. The other boys clung together in small cliques while I sat alone. How do I start a conversation—I’m just no good at it.
After supper, I wandered into the empty billiard room, picked up a cue and tried to hit the balls into the pockets. My handling of the stick was clumsy and I miss-hit the balls. A tall, slim boy wandered in and asked if I wanted a game.
I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should simply give up and leave—but I enjoyed the click of the balls and wanted to learn the game. “Actually, I’ve never played before. Can you show me?”
He demonstrated how to hold the cue and create a neat bridge with his left hand for the cue to rest in. Once I’d managed to hit a ball into a pocket, he explained the rules of English billiards. We started a friendly match. Gradually I got the hang of the game, though I lost badly—but I was hooked! Maybe I could get good if I practiced.
Two days later, after an informal job interview, I was hired as a cleaner for Snoopy’s Disco—starting immediately. Working for a nightclub sounded glamorous, but it wasn’t. In the light of day, the empty dance hall was ugly and uninviting: walls and ceiling painted a drab black, a massive plastic Snoopy dog in one corner and the DJ platform upfront, empty and forlorn. The whole place smelled of stale smoke and alcohol.
My task was to sweep and mop the main rooms and toilets. Mounds of garbage had to be bagged and the inevitable vomit dredged out of urinals and sinks. The work was menial and boring, but it paid and I was left on my own. When my shift finished at four o’clock, I had the evening to myself, except when I visited the hospital.
Radiation made Mother weak and tired but she basked in the attention of staff and patients. Ordinary events—who got discharged, symptom changes, a nurse’s casual remark—took on an aura of profound significance. Mother replayed the news and relayed intimate details of patient’s lives while I listened with half an ear. I felt trapped and uninterested, watching the minutes drag by until visiting hour was over. Only then could I make my escape and do what interested me most—read obscure religious texts in the National Library.
Early on, I’d wandered around the Irish National Museum gazing at the spectacular displays of gold handicrafts: fragile Celtic torcs, chalices covered in precious stones, massive ceremonial crosses. The exquisite golden artifacts were stunning, but as I left the museum, I discovered a singular treasure next door: the Irish National Library. On impulse I signed up for a reader’s ticket.
After supper I’d make my way downtown and pass through a majestic classical portico to enter the vast, domed reading room. Under a stunning sky-blue cupola, I settled into my domain: a green leather-covered desk with its own little light and wooden bookstand. Surrounded by millions of books and dozens of other intent bookworms, I plunged into the sinuous realms of Buddhism.
Many of the dusty Tibetan texts were inscrutable, but as a philosophy I found Buddhism restful and reasonable. As it states, all experiences are transient, projections of our mental states no more real than fleeting dreams. We have to shift our perceptions and attachments away from the mundane material world and focus on stilling the mind. After all, it is clinging attachment that causes us to suffer. I knew all about suffering!
A couple of weeks slithered by in a ragged routine: eat and sleep at the boy’s home, clean Snoopy’s Disco in the morning, visit St Luke’s Hospital some afternoons, knock a few balls around the billiard table and read at the National Library. Mother visibly weakened as radiotherapy nibbled away at her life force, yet she still could embarrass, irritate and bore me to tears. The Waterford doctor’s dire warning echoed around my brain: Prepare for the worst. Maybe Mother dying was not the worst. Maybe the worst was a long, lingering illness with me looking after her.
Then the universe shifted. As I entered the ward, Mother gestured frantically at me, waving a piece of paper in her hand.
“I got a letter from Bob Mahoney,” she blurted. “The caravan’s been vandalized and burnt to the ground. There’s nothing left, not a bloody thing.” Pausing for a breath, she spat out, “I bet it’s those fucking teenagers who hang around the quay!”
I stood still in shock. What should I feel: anger, indignation, loss? No! This was the answer to my unspoken prayer. Relief and delight flooded my body. I could see it vividly: the caravan bursting into flames, the paraffin stove exploding and all the rotting hardboard, stolen library books and musty clothes turned to ash. A festive bonfire, a flaming sacrifice—the fire erased every one of my ties to Dungarvan. There was no going back!
I tried to sound suitably dismayed: “What are we going to do? Where will you live after hospital?”
“We could find a flat together in Dublin.”
I cringed at the thought. “That won’t work. I can’t make enough money. I’m going to write to Veronica and Dad. Something has to be done. We’ll go to Cardiff and camp on the doorstep if we have to.”
That was it—no more shouldering the whole fucking Mother-burden on my own. I wrote a strong letter to Veronica and to Dad demanding help: Mother was dying and we were homeless. I’d done my bit; now the so-called adults had to step up.
Over a week and no reply. Mother’s discharge date drew closer. Each day, a cloud of hopelessness dragged heavier on my shoulders, fuzzing my brain so I couldn’t concentrate on my Buddhist studies.
That afternoon it was drizzling hard and I arrived at the hospital soaked through. Entering the ward, I spotted two sodden–looking people huddled around Mother’s bed. My heart sank: Who’s she cornered this time? What’s she saying about me?
Mother looked up, said something and the faces turned towards me: it was Veronica and Dilly! I stopped in my tracks. What are they doing here? Do they even recognize me? It’d been years since they’d seen me last.
As I walked down the ward, Veronica got up, gave me an odd look and said softly, “Moey,” as if to reassure herself it was me. She reached up to hug me, and I realized she was tiny, hardly coming up to my shoulder. This was my big sister?
Dilly stood up next, gave me her characteristic lopsided grin and said, “Hi, you!” Her hug was short and tight. She was the same as ever.
Before I could say anything, Mother butted in: “They came a couple of hours ago and we’ve had a good talk. I’m going back to Cardiff. The hospital is making the arrangements—so that’s settled.” Mother was her normal self: intrusive and insensitive.
Veronica’s face hardened, her mouth clamped tight but she didn’t say anything. Mother obviously got on her nerves. They’d always rowed and Veronica had left home as soon as she could. It must have been ten years since they’d spoken.
Veronica turned to me and her expression softened into one of cautious sympathy, “How are you Moey? You look so big.”
“I’m OK,” I replied. It was hard to meet her eyes.
Veronica was the oldest child, more parent than sibling. Opinionated and critical, her sharp tongue and sarcasm were fearsome; it made me wary. Now, with long wet hair and smudged mascara, she looked softer, more vulnerable. Maybe she’d changed.
Mother interrupted again: “I’m tired and the nurse is coming with my pills. You should be going. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I gave Mother an obligatory kiss. Veronica and Dilly said goodbye, picked up their bags and we left together. Standing at the bus stop, unsettled by my sisters’ presence and uncomfortable with the looming silence, I asked, “How are things in Cardiff?” I could rely on Dilly to do the talking.
“Of course, you don’t know! I left ages ago; I’m living in London now. That’s why we came over together—moral support! Isn’t that right, Veronica?” She gave a sharp burst of laughter. “Let’s see. Toody did his O Levels. John is as impossible as ever—what do you expect? He moved into my room when I left, and you should see it: black ceiling and weird stuff everywhere. God knows what he’s up to—he’s really into drugs.”
She paused for a breath. “Dad is just the same—in his own world. He’s mostly down in the allotment. Of course, he’s totally freaked out about Mummy coming—we all are!”
Immersed in my own misery, I’d hardly thought about how Mother’s presence would affect the rest of the family. Anyway, it was not my problem; they’d just have to deal with it.
Veronica was quiet but as the bus arrived she spoke up: “Why don’t you come back to our bed and breakfast. We can talk and catch up.”
After a couple of bus changes, we arrived at their B&B. Veronica knocked on the door and a neat housewife in an apron answered it. She stood looking at the bedraggled trio on her doorstep. “Can I help you?”
Veronica took the lead: “We phoned about a room this morning—Veronica and Dilly Evans. This is my brother who lives in Dublin.” She gestured towards me.
The woman hesitated and peered at us. “You’re not Jewish, are you?” she asked in a hard voice, clearly looking at Veronica’s hooked nose.
Veronica and Dilly answered almost in unison, “Of course not. We’re over from London to see our Mother in St Luke’s.” The question and their knee-jerk denial made me squirm, but I couldn’t say why.
The woman smiled. “Well that’s grand. Come on in. You’re at the top of the stairs on the right.” She led us up to a tiny, cramped room with two single beds.
Dilly plunked down on the far bed with Veronica beside her. I sat on the bed opposite. Veronica plied me with questions, and I answered as best I could: the doctor had given Mother five years to live; the caravan had burnt down; we had nowhere to live; my job was horrible and I supposed I’d have to go back to Cardiff.
“Oh God, what a mess.” Veronica sighed; she looked tired and fed up. “She’s just as bad as ever, you know—even if she is dying.”
“I know,” Dilly answered. “But what can we do? It’s up to Daddy now. He’ll have to deal with her.” She was lying sprawled on the bed behind Veronica, ready to take a nap.
Veronica suddenly pinned me with hurt eyes. “You know your letters with all that magic stuff really scared me. I felt really sick when I read them.”
Finally, she’d said it; I knew something was lurking between us.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “But what else could I do?” My frustration started to boil up to the surface. I tried hard to push it down.
Dilly jumped in: “Yea, what were you thinking? Those letters were fucking awful—really nasty. They sacred the shit out of all of us.” You could rely on Dilly to speak her mind, but unlike Veronica, her words didn’t have the same effect.
My voice got louder. “If anyone had listened, if Dad had even bothered to answer, I wouldn’t have had to.” This time I was not giving in. “What did you expect? You just ignored me. I got dumped with Mummy and you forgot all about her.”
I saw my words take effect, stirring up ashes of guilt. They were not dealing with a little boy any more.
Veronica sat back. “OK. I know it was horrible for you. But I got so scared—you have no idea.” She stopped and her attention went inward. “Please don’t do it again.” Her voice had an imploring tone and the tightness in my chest eased.
“Of course not. I’m not interested in that sort of thing any more.”
“Thank you, Moey. That makes me feel better.” She reached over and gave me a hug.
She half turned. “Hey Dilly, do you fancy a smoke? I really need it after seeing Mummy! Open the window.” She rummaged around in her bag and came out with cigarette papers and an odd-looking wrinkled sack. “Have you smoked before, Moey?” She was not asking about cigarettes.
“No. There’s not much chance in Dungarvan.” It was a small joke but it made me realize how different my life was from theirs.
Veronica stuck the papers together and arranged the tobacco on the papers. From the winkled bag, she extracted some light-colored hash, heated it and crumbled it up onto the tobacco.
Dilly looked over Veronica’s shoulder. “Is that the stuff from Abdul?”
“Yes—it was his gift when we left Morocco.” She passed me the strange little bag. “It’s made out of a goat’s scrotum.” She laughed. “See how yellow the hash is—pure pollen. Be careful—it’s very strong.” She lit up and took a long draw. Her eyelids grew heavy.
“Here you go, Dilly,” she said dreamily and passed the joint behind her. Dilly took a small draw, coughed and handed it to me.
I didn’t like the musty smell but I was curious. I took a puff, inhaled and blew the smoke out. My head began to whirl, everything got woozy and far away. Then my head fell back on the pillow and I passed out.
Illness and Healing
I always wondered why mother didn’t die of cancer as forecast by the doctor. She lived another 13 years cancer free and expired from falling down stairs onto her fragile forehead. Was the cancer as much a creation of her mind as her body? Certainly, it solved a lot of problems and provided a convenient way for her to get the attention she craved. Mother had good reason to make herself ill and conversely I believe she had the ability to heal herself.
That healing capacity is not available to everyone. Her roommate in the hospital dying of lung cancer had no such ability or choice—she died quickly even though she had good reason to live. That poses the question: why do some people recover from life-threatening illness and others succumb?
Of course there are no definitive answers. Too many interlocking factors contribute to a person’s illness—genetic inheritance, environmental toxins, cells gone rogue, as well as social and psychological stresses. Conventional medicine takes a pragmatic physical approach to disease: attack it with surgery, chemicals and inoculations, repair any damage and supply whatever is missing (e.g. blood or insulin).
We know medicine works and often has miraculous results. However, it is effective only because it takes for granted our inherent healing mechanisms. Medicine does not mend a broken leg or cure an infection; it creates the best possible conditions for natural healing to happen.
Our bodies, our psyches and our souls work constantly to stay healthy and whole. Survival is our most basic instinct and healing is programmed into every cell, every organ and into our deepest psyche. As a gardener, woodworker and general handyman, I hurt my body on a regular basis. I pay little attention to cuts, scrapes and muscle aches; they will be gone and forgotten in a matter of days. Like most of us, I take healing for granted.
The forces for healing and wholeness are hidden in the depths of our physical and psychic being. At the deepest level, the physical and the psychological are one—every thought is a neuronal process in our brain; every cell embodies its own intelligence. Every thought affects our body; every mood reflects our physical state. The artificial separation of mind and body is an illusion.
Healing depends on unconscious processes, but those are acutely tuned to our conscious mindset. What we believe, think, feel and how we act, directly informs what the unconscious can and will do. Our conscious attitude helps or hinders healing. A positive attitude encourages our body and mind to become whole.
Mother promoted her sickness though toxic attitudes and harmful habits. Unconsciously or semi-consciously, she wanted to be taken care of—and her illness did that for her. Once her ego needs were met in hospital (narcissists thrive on attention), she let go of certain negative attitudes and self-harming actions. Surgery and possibly radiotherapy created a level playing field for her body to rally; her attitude adjustment helped it along.
Constricted views of our selves and the world block our healing capacity. Fear, negative beliefs and loss of hope permeate every cell in our body sending messages to give up struggling. Pretense, false optimism and avoidance do similar harm. The unconscious is not fooled—it knows when the situation is dire and does not take kindly to being lied to. Our first tasks have to be to accept the reality of the illness and then do something about it!
Doing something does not simply mean going to the doctor. If we only rely on external forces to cure us, we lapse into passivity and give our selves the message we are powerless and uninvolved. Illness requires we actively confront our fears and self-limiting beliefs. We invite our deeper Self to be intimately engaged in every aspect of treatment and recuperation. Hypnosis, imagery and self-talk give a clear message of what we want the unconscious to do.
Tell yourself in no uncertain terms, in as many ways as possible, what you want to happen—then let go of the result. The forces for healing do best when given a clear purpose; they do not respond well to meddling interference. A positive and open attitude invites forces beyond our understanding to create healing miracles. We can only surrender to the outcome.
Intention and Synchronicity
In the last chapter, I ended the narrative with a profound realization and intention: I should live life as if it has meaning. Up to that point, I’d been swept along by events, at the mercy of unconscious forces, drowning in my own misery. That decision was a spur and initiation of my spiritual path; it changed my life. Somehow a shift in my attitude and intention created a new direction, a different shaping, not only of my inner life but also of the outer world.
My relocation to Dublin, discovering the National Library, the caravan burning, Veronica and Dilly’s appearance: were these random happenings or did they form a sort of meaningful sequence that reflected my change of heart? Put simply: do our intentions shape our inner and outer experience and if so how?
Life is a journey of innumerable decisions. Waking each moment, we pay attention to our dreams or not; we decide how to dress, what to eat, where to go, what to say and how to say it to family, friends and colleagues. Our minds are filled with impressions, thoughts and feelings and we notice some and push others aside. Every moment we make choices; the majority of these are unconscious and automatic, but some are a product of reflection and conscious deliberation. How do intentions and choices influence the life we experience?
“My experience is what I agree to attend to…” This quote from the great psychologist and philosopher William James provoked a profound Aha! when I first read it as a college student. James struggled with debilitating depression and many of his ideas are attempts to get to grips with his own conflicted thoughts and feelings. He realized that how we choose to direct our attention, whether through positive habits or conscious willpower, determines the direction and quality of our life. Intention informs our choices about how we focus our attention. That in turn determines the life path we take and the experiences we experience.
Imagine you are in a forest with many trails. You set an intention to get to the top of the mountain. At each fork in the path you have to make a decision: is the left or the right track more likely to get me there or not? You pay attention to the signs and landmarks and compare those with a sketch map in your mind. Ultimately, relying on your sense of direction, you make a choice and set off again. It’s easy to get lost, but if you stay aware and take the steeper and more challenging trail, you’ll most likely reach an open space, a vista that gives a perspective on the journey.
We are all on our particular paths, each heading up, down or around the mountain. Many of the people we bump into are wandering around, not going anywhere in particular without intention to guide them. Along the way are confusing signs, conflicting messages about which turns to take, so we have to stay alert, be mindful of where we are at any moment. If we forget our objective, if we waver in our resolve and attentiveness, we get lost.
In this moment, you are reading these words; that is the focus of your attention and thus a big chunk of your experience. To have read this far, you must have made an intention to do so and as you read, certain ideas catch your attention. These hopefully spark a more expansive intention for how you choose to live your life—and so the cycle of intention, attention and choice spirals outwards and upward.
In the realm of inner experience, this cycle obviously makes sense: I noticed the National Library because my interests drew me to it; I made a choice to go there each evening and read. What about the outer world—does the quality of our intention and attention influence events beyond our skin?
This is a more mysterious question. In the quantum realms, observation appears to influence the behavior of subatomic particles: the more the amount of “watching,” the more the observer influences the outcome. Until it is examined by a human consciousness, matter seems to exist in an in between state, neither this nor that, neither here nor there. It makes us wonder whether the quality of our attention to the world of things affect physical reality.
Inexplicable and coincidental physical events happen, according to C.G. Jung, because the objective and inner worlds are inextricably entangled. With his physicist friend, Wolfgang Pauli, he developed the concept of synchronicity in which, “… a certain psychic event is paralleled by some external, non-psychic event and there is no causal connection between them.” To account for paranormal phenomena and significant coincidences, Jung believed objective and subjective experiences are connected by their meaningfulness. What happens to us in the outer world is mysteriously synchronized with our inner experience. There is a conspiracy in the universe between unconscious psychic forces and physical reality.
Does the caravan burning fit into the synchronicity category? My wish to be free of Dungarvan and of Mother was realized in the simplest way through that conflagration; nothing else could have cut the ties so definitely. It prompted me to confront my family, which in turn provoked the visit from my sisters and our return to Cardiff. However you look at it, there was a series of decisions and events that led to a very specific outcome. That sequence began with my intention to live a meaningful life. I believe the universe supported and conspired with that decision in both ordinary and extraordinary ways.
A strong positive intention sets us in motion on a particular life path. It determines what we pay attention to, the choices we make and the quality of our experience. It also invites inexplicable synchronistic forces to maneuver outer events in our favor. Our intentions have the power to enhance our life and change the world.
We should not confuse this kind of life-changing intention with a simple wish or desire. Wishes are passing fancies that dissipate like the mist. A true intention requires whole-heartedness and single-mindedness. It is not a one-off affair but, like an inner fire, it has to be tended, fed with the fuel of our imagination and dreams. Today is the best day to make or strengthen our most profound intentions. The only time to do it is now.
 William James was possibly the greatest of all American psychologists. Because he was primarily a theoretician and philosopher, his influence has sadly faded though his ideas are still part of the culture. His greatest works in psychology are:
James, W. (1890). The Principles of Psychology. New York: Henry Holt and Co.
James, William (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience. Harvard University Press.
 Shimon Malin (2001). Nature Loves to Hide, Oxford University Press.
 C. G. Jung (1960). “Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle.” In The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, Collected Works 8, Princeton: Princeton University Press.