“3:33,” the digital clock likes to tell me.
“Oh, here he goes again! Matt thinks he’s a numerologist!”
Believe what you want. I see the number sequence 333 ALL THE TIME. As I said before, I see it infinitely more than my semi-intelligent brain deems to be the statistical likelihood.
When I wrote about this the first time, I was amused to discover it was my 33rd post after hitting the “Publish” button.
This time, I knew it was coming. Post No. 333. There could only be one topic.
But, what to say?
What Does it Mean?
I still don’t know. But I love that I’m thinking about it.
When I wrote about this 300 posts ago, I made fun of some of the things I found on the internet in my quest for 333 answers. Because the most-common result when searching for 333 meaning is this: Angels and Ascended Masters are trying to get your attention.
<insert vinyl record-screeching noise here>
You fall into one of three camps:
Camp 1 – “Angels and ‘Ascended Masters’!?!? Are you phucking (you thoughtfully use “ph” to lessen the impact) stupid!?!?
My response: Maybe.
Camp 2 – “Well, OF COURSE it’s the angels, silly! What!? You thought it was just a funny coincidence all this time!? Hahaha!”
My response: Maybe.
Camp 3 – “I don’t live my life assuming I know anything for sure. I acknowledge I don’t have all the answers and try to stay open-minded.”
My response: Me too.
Several weeks ago, a friend set me up on a date with one of her friends. She included something akin to a cautionary warning: She has “unique abilities,” my friend said about my date.
Details were scarce. I didn’t know if I was dealing with Miss Cleo, the Long Island Medium, or just someone super-spiritual.
“She can see auras and detect certain energy,” I was told.
I grew up Catholic. I still am. Psychics scare us. But, dammit, if I’m going to walk a higher path, I’m not going to judge people and be afraid of things just because I don’t understand them.
As dates go, I wouldn’t call it successful. She insists she had a good time.
However, a legit friendship was born. She’s pretty fascinating. And the more I get to know and understand her, the more I appreciate her unique perspective on life. I have deep respect for how she experiences the world.
She’s the one who convinced me to try meditation, something I’d already been considering. Life-changing, I think.
I don’t need to be psychic to know what you’re thinking: “Is she for real? Does she intuitively know things?”
Maybe she’s just a good guesser, like me. But after hanging out with her a half dozen times? Yeah. I believe she’s the real deal.
I drove her to dinner about a month ago just to hang out for a few hours one random night. I pulled into a parking lot just off a road under construction. There was a huge dip as we pulled in that made both of us bounce quasi-violently in our seats. I do this thing where I instinctively put my right arm out to “protect” my passenger in situations like that, as if my floating arm is going to save anyone’s life in a car accident.
We were laughing about it as I apologized for the rough ride. “I didn’t know we were going to Moab!” I said, referring to a town in Utah famous among Jeep owners and off-road driving enthusiasts.
We pulled into a random parking spot seconds later. She tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the back of the Jeep Wrangler parked in front of us.
“You said you’re always looking for signs,” she said with a mischievous grin. “You could have pulled into any of these other spots.”
On the Jeep’s back window was a large Moab, Utah sticker.
Things like that happen when you’re with her.
The Source has several names: Mother Earth. Allah. Nature. The Universe. The Supreme Being.
My friend and I use “God.”
The place from where light and love and energy emanate. God doesn’t speak to us in a booming voice from the heavens, she insists. Nor from a burning bush. Nor from impossible-to-miss miracles in the sky.
Rather, we’re spoken to in whispers.
And for most of my life, I’ve tried hard to plug my ears and not listen.
It’s not convenient to cede control. I’ve always been too afraid.
Because then I won’t get to do what I want!!!
I’m trying to remember the last time doing what I wanted brought me peace and happiness.
333: All the Time
I see it on the clock.
I see it on microwave timers.
I see it as my phone or Jeep dash display tells me how much time remains in the song I’m listening to.
I see it on billboards: “Hotdog and soft drink combo! Just $3.33!”
I see it on email timestamps.
I see it on my word counter.
I see it on my treadmill.
I see it on my odometer. Just this morning at a stoplight: 13,333.
I understand if you think it’s bullshit. I think lots of things are bullshit.
My friend says it’s the angels. She doesn’t think, she says. She knows.
She calls me a “light worker.” Not light worker, like I only do light work, but light worker as in I’m someone called to do good.
And maybe sometimes I do. I don’t know. These things aren’t measurable.
And I don’t know that I believe I’m called any more than anyone else to be a force for good in this world.
Everyone is capable of lighting up the darkness.
If everyone tried, there wouldn’t be much dark left.
Which sounds pretty nice.
I don’t know much.
But I’m convinced there are many things about life beyond our understanding.
And if angels or the Universe or random chance choose the number 333 as a tool to remind me to walk a higher path, then it seems worth paying attention.
So, that’s what I’m doing.
I hope you will, too.