The Brilliant Universe
Before we had children, Drew and I lived on Beach Drive in West Seattle. Driving north along the peninsula, the boulevard curved at the lighthouse before opening onto miles of unbroken beachfront.
Alki Beach is the San Diego of Seattle. It sits on Puget Sound, looking west toward the Olympic Mountains. On summer days, Alki is a hive of excitement and activity- rollerbladers weave through throngs of eager beach-goers, sticky-fingered children eat melting ice cream cones, and young crowds blast music from cars parked along the avenue. On the sand, beach volleyball tournaments unfold, driftwood forts are erected, and courageous souls venture into the cold indigo waters of Puget Sound.
Though we lived on Beach Drive, I loved to go to Alki for bonfires, family picnics, and sushi dates. There is a particular magic along that stretch of land that cannot be matched. It is alive, vibrant, and palpable.
Beyond the main strip, a patchwork neighborhood of beach bungalows unfolds. Houses are painted soft pinks, lavenders, and yellows. Cats laze in sunny windows, and front yard fountains burble pleasantly. Strolling down those meandering lanes, one is charmed by climbing roses and smooth beach stone paths.
Around every corner is magic- a murmuring creek spilling between mossy banks, shaded paths climbing high into the forest, rope swings, little free libraries, and glittering yard art.
This pocket of land is steeped in magic.
One afternoon, I decided to go boot shopping. I didn’t have a particular pair in mind, but I did want something with a solid heel. I was considering cowboy boots, or perhaps a classic pair of Frye’s. I had the whole day off, so I hopped in my car and headed to Capitol Hill.
Capitol Hill is an eclectic neighborhood across town from West Seattle. I was born at Group Health Hospital on Capitol Hill, and both of my parents were born on the Hill, too.
When they were growing up, it was known as ‘Catholic Hill.’ Catholics didn’t practice birth control, so families proliferated. My mom’s family of five children was considered small by Capitol Hill standards- she knew families with eight, ten, or fifteen children. By the time I was born, this had changed, but the heart and soul of Capitol Hill remained the same.
On the east side of the hill, affluent families inhabit the classic old homes, some of them bonafide mansions. That side of Capitol Hill is lush with deciduous trees which shade the neighborhood pleasantly.
Each home is unique, with twisting gardens, wraparound porches, and history etched into the walls. Walking through those neighborhoods, there is a sense of stately, dignified prosperity. Old money. Young, healthy families. An invisible thread of magic winds and skips through the alleys, gardens, and schoolyards.
On the west side of the hill, counter-culture reigns. Broadway is the main artery running north to south, connecting Beacon Hill to the University District. It is home to the tattooed, dreadlocked misfits of the city. Coffee shops, record stores, and international food joints populate the length of Broadway. Here, you find tattoo parlors, thrift shops, and fine dining, an eclectic mix of culture that delivers a straight shot of energy to your veins.
Broadway, and its adjacent web of streets and alleys, is also the center of gay culture in Seattle. Sex shops, bathhouses, and gay bars are a dime a dozen. Even the crosswalks are painted rainbow. Needless to say, some of the best shopping in Seattle can be found on Broadway. It was here that I headed for my boot-shopping excursion.
When I’m shopping on Broadway, the first (and often last) stop is at Crossroads Trading Company. This OG thrift shop has everything- designer jeans, faux fur jackets, and flashy jewelry. You can leave with a bagful of sleek black designs, or an overflow of flamboyant looks sure to slay at any hipster gathering.
I walked in and went straight to the back. Here, boots, shoes, and sandals lined the wall. I scanned the selection of footwear, selecting promising pieces to take into the fitting room. A pair of soft suede moccasins caught my eye. A pair of maroon cowboy boots with mustard yellow lacing also made the cut.
And then my gaze landed on a pair of boots straight out of an Austin Powers movie. They were tall, fully enclosing the calf and reaching to the knee. They were a warm brown color that felt earthy and just right. The heel was chunky and square. But most notably, each boot had a sash of turquoise, red, and gold wound around it from top to bottom. The design looked Native American. The end of each sash was fringed, adding character and depth to an otherwise classic boot.
I pulled the boots off the shelf to look at the sashes. Upon closer inspection, I could see that they had been affixed by the previous owner. They were not a feature of the original boot. The stitching was a bit amateur- higher on the left boot than on the right, and slightly uneven in spacing. But in all, the previous owner had done a good job. Clearly, the embellishment was handmade, but it gave the boots character. I was sold.
Then I looked at the price tag- $135. I was expecting to pay half that price in a thrift shop. It seemed steep, even for such a charming pair of boots. I was torn.
I decided to try them on. I took them to the fitting room and zipped my feet into them. They fit perfectly. They shaped my calves in a lovely way. I turned this way and that, admiring my reflection in the mirror. I walked out into the open fitting room, and strutted back and forth in front of the large mirrors. I was smitten. I wanted the boots. But I didn’t want to pay $135.
For the next ten minutes, I deliberated. I tried to talk myself out of them. Then I tried to talk myself into them. I was at a stalemate. They were such a unique pair of boots, and they were made for my legs. The sash made them even better. And although it had clearly been stitched by hand- and a slightly uneven hand, at that- I loved them. I felt like they were mine. But I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money.
After some time, I returned the boots to the shelf. I felt sad, but resigned. I wished them a wistful goodbye. I tried not to think about them too much as I drove back to West Seattle.
Fast forward several months. I get an impulse to drive to Alki Beach. I follow it. I park my car and take a stroll.
It’s a lovely day. The sky is blue with puffy white clouds. Children shriek and play on the beach and seagulls wheel in the sky. Families cruise by on Surry Bikes, iconic four-wheeled pedal carts that are popular on Alki Beach.
I begin to walk. I have no agenda.
Just past Marine Avenue, I get a hit to turn into the parking lot of Wheel Fun Rentals. Children rush past me with ice cream cones, and harried mothers with strollers try to keep up. I have no idea where I’m going. I just let my feet lead.
In the corner of the parking lot, I notice an old brick building next to a surf shop. I’ve never seen it before. A small staircase leads to the front door. I climb the steps and push it open. A bell jingles as I step inside.
Looking around, I encounter the most crowded thrift shop I’ve ever seen. It’s tiny- one room opening onto the next opening onto the next. But each room is the size of a large closet. In all, it’s hardly bigger than my living room. And it is stuffed with inventory. Bursting. Unbelievably crammed with clothes.
They are exploding out of trunks. Spilling out of drawers. Jammed together so closely on hanging rods, you have to forcibly pull them apart. There is no breathing room. It is a spectacle.
But something about this claustrophobic little space is enchanting in itself. How long has it been here? Where did this insane collection come from? Who thought the design was a good idea? Why?
And even though I have to pick my way carefully through in order to avoid stepping on piles of shoes and fallen scarves, there is a strange sense of magic. It’s like stepping into another dimension where wardrobes become portals to impossible worlds.
Where will this lead?
I turn this way and that, inspecting jackets and hats. I step over a pile of boxes and bump into a rack of belts. I turn carefully and begin to navigate my way back to the front of the store.
Just then, I notice a little nook I hadn’t seen before. Something about it calls to me. It is whimsical, mysterious, and somehow shy. If a space could whisper, ‘Come here…’, it does.
I feel a pleasant prickling across my neck. I take a step into the nook. Then another.
Clothes are wedged tightly together on racks, bursting forth like a fat woman’s belly. The space is cloistered, cluttered, intimate. It feels thick with promise. I am in a world of textures and colors, unable to see more than a foot in front of me. Once again, I have the strange sensation that I have stepped into a portal.
Something invites me to kneel down. I do. I feel the urge to part the clothes on the lower rack. This is illogical, because there doesn’t appear to be a space behind the clothes. It’s just a wall. But I do it anyway.
Using both hands, I forcefully separate the hanging skirts and dresses and peer into the darkness beyond. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. It is very dim back there. But as I continue to look, shapes take form and colors emerge. Here is yet another hidden pocket! You would never know it was here unless you got down on hands and knees and looked.
I squint into the darkness, and then something catches my eye. A familiar turquoise, red and gold pattern. I am perplexed for a moment as my mind tries to connect what I am seeing to what I have seen…
For a liminal moment I float back to another place and time… a different neighborhood and a different shop. And then I gasp.
My boots!
I pull them out and stare down in wonder. Can it be? Is it really possible?
I turn the boots over in my hands and inspect the stitching. Still uneven. Still slightly amateur. I peer inside. Size 8 ½, just like before. I hold them up and turn them around, inspecting them from all angles.
Unbelievable.
They found me (or I found them), across town, months later. They called to me from a concealed pocket hidden in a tiny closet inside a crammed thrift shop in a previously unseen brick building off of Alki Avenue. Impulse by impulse, I said yes that day, and some unseen force guided me to the boots I so dearly adored.
I stand up, hugging them to my chest. I am thrilled. The synchronicity of finding them fills me with joy. I am so delighted by the unfolding of this journey, that I concede then and there to pay full price, whatever it is. I walk to the counter at the back of the shop and lay the boots down. The shopgirl smiles and pulls the tag out to scan it.
And for the final act?
The boots that had previously been $135 are now on sale for $13.50. I shit you not.
On that day, the brilliant Universe delivered my boots at 90% off.
Life works in mysterious ways. When you learn how to live in alignment with the energy, it will take you on wild and wondrous adventures. It does not work on a linear timeline, but it doesn’t need to. It works in spirals and loops and synchronicities.
Anyone can access this magic. You can too. In fact, when I am times of lethargy or stuckness, I turn to the energy of Synchronicity to lift me out. I feel my feelings, I own my shit, and then I get pointed in the right direction. It works every time.
Do you want to learn about Synchronicity? Would you like to invite more of it into your life?
Join me for the Synchronicity Masterclass, this Friday, June 12th from 12-2 pm PST. It is free, it is fun, and it wants to connect with YOU!
If you feel an inkling, say yes. That’s how the magic always begins…
😉
Love,
Sarah
Register here 🪄☎️✨
