When the Signs Start Adding Up

Standing at baggage claim at Phoenix airport again. Wasn’t I just here yesterday? I was. This time felt different. I was waiting for a friend. I stood there watching people pass, scanning faces, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd. Then suddenly I was grabbed from behind and heard the word hello. I let out a blood curdling scream, spun around, and there she was. We burst into laughter and hugged like we had known this exact moment would find us.

We gathered her luggage and stepped outside where the driver was waiting. He loaded our bags and we were on our way. The drive to Sedona unfolded in quiet beauty. The saguaro cacti stood tall, an arm lifted as if to greet our arrival. The sun began to set, casting warm shades of gold across the landscape. It felt like the desert itself was welcoming us. We talked easily, catching up as the miles passed by.

We arrived at the hotel, unpacked, ate, and gave in to sleep. The time change and travel had caught up with both of us.

We woke before sunrise and brought our coffee to the observation deck. We sat in silence, sipping slowly, watching the big ball of fiery red and orange rise above the red rocks. The kind of beauty that quiets everything inside you.

We decided to Uber to Walmart in Cottonwood to gather food, water, and supplies for the next few days. This was our day to rest and organize. Tomorrow the conference would begin.

While waiting, we sat on the couch in the hotel lobby and each picked up a paper. My eyes landed on an article about Jerome, the town known for its ghost stories and the Jerome Grand Hotel. I had been to Jerome before, but never to the hotel. J had asked earlier for ideas of what we might do while we were here. I had not mentioned Jerome because of the drive from Sedona. My intuitive knowing was already working long before our trip.

J held the paper toward me and pointed to the article about the Grand Hotel. She looked at me and said, “I want to spend the night there on my birthday, but the others joining us are too afraid.”

“I’m not,” I said immediately.

“We could go,” she said. “Just you and I.”

Without hesitation I replied, yes, we absolutely can.

Our Uber arrived and we were on our way to Cottonwood. The driver talked about different places he had lived and what had brought him to Sedona. Then, without any prompting, he said, “You need to visit Jerome.”

I looked at J and nodded, feeling that quiet recognition settle in.

See, this is a sign.

Once in Cottonwood, we decided to eat at Crema Craft Kitchen. Our waitress greeted us warmly. She was tall, slender, beautiful, and most of all kind. There was an ease about her presence that made the moment feel comfortable, as though we had arrived exactly where we were meant to be. She handed us menus and took our drink order.

We both ordered mimosas. They were light, crisp, and refreshing, the perfect beginning to an afternoon of wandering.

She returned and we ordered our food. Thankfully it arrived quickly, because the mimosas were already making my head feel slightly weightless, as if the edges of the day had softened. When she brought the check, she asked what had brought us to Sedona. I spoke about my work with synchronicity. She smiled in recognition and said she was learning to follow her own signs too, and how things always seem to work out when she does.

I felt something inside me settle, a quiet reassurance that I was moving in the right direction.

Another sign.

A gentle reminder to keep going.

We left the restaurant and wandered through town, drifting in and out of little shops, letting curiosity guide us. There was no rush, only the simple pleasure of exploring without expectation. We eventually stepped into an old antique store filled with the scent of aged wood and stories waiting to be remembered.

As I slowly looked around, my eyes caught a book resting on an antique dresser. The title seemed to call out from across the room.

The Ghost of the Cuban Queen Bordello.

I picked it up and felt a chill of recognition when I read the line beneath the title. A story of a 1920s Jerome, Arizona madam.

By the way, did I mention my friend is Cuban?

I looked at J, my eyes wide, heart already racing with the quiet thrill of something aligning once again.

There it is.

Another synchronicity.

This makes three signs. When the signs start adding up,

excitement begins building. A familiar feeling that something unseen is gently guiding the path ahead, placing small confirmations along the way like breadcrumbs meant to be noticed.

Will we go to Jerome?

If we do, what will happen?

For now, the story pauses here.

The conference begins tomorrow.