They say
there two types of people: Freudian or Jungian. I’m a Jungian type of gal. Ever
since I heard his thoughts on “meaningful coincidences”, he had me hooked. My
understanding of what Jung was saying is, “Hey, you there. The universe is
aligning its stars and there is going to be a series of events you will find
freakishly random, but that isn’t to say they aren’t of great importance. So
pay close attention!” As a
teenager, I experienced such a series of freakish events. They propelled me
kicking-and-screaming directly into a friendship with my ghostly nemesis, Nerida.
In 1970,
when I was thirteen years old, I transferred from a large suburban public high
school to a small private girls boarding school in the center of Montreal. The
only reason I enrolled in the school was because I needed to live downtown, so
I could attend ballet lessons for several hours every afternoon and on
Saturdays at Les Grand Ballet Canadiens. Boarding school seemed a pragmatic solution for overcoming commuting
hassles. What I wasn’t prepared for was the strict Anglo-Saxon school regime
they enforced. Hogwarts hadn’t been invented yet. I found school uniforms,
houses, prefects, matrons, demerit points, detention, and bad school food
difficult to adjust to.
The
teachers and matrons quickly became exasperated by my rebellious behavior. They
could not comprehend why I found their Anglo-Saxon ways so restrictive.
Their lack of understanding was because they had had a boarder the previous year from
Newfoundland, who was also a dance student, and she’d caused them no difficulty
whatsoever. Her name was Nerida. What a dear child. So sweet-natured. So
obedient. Such lovely angelic curly hair. Did I know her?
Right then
and there I decided I hated Nerida, even though I had never met her. Not because
she was obviously a wimp, but mainly for her lovely angelic curly hair.
Nerida’s
perfect behavior was held against me at every twist and turn. Then another
freakish event happened. I had to get braces and it was an excruciatingly
painful procedure. Every month, I would go and get my braces tightened. The
orthodontist would hover above with his instruments of torture and sternly
reprimand me for having not worn the elastic bands he prescribed.
As luck
would have it, he had a patient last year who was also a dance student and she ALWAYS
wore her elastics. Did I know her? Her name was Nerida.
Fast-forward
two years … I moved from Montreal to Cannes, France, as a student of the Rosella
Hightower’s International School of Dance. I was ecstatic having blissfully
escaped the restrictions of the boarding school regime. What a carefree existence;
the type a sixteen-year-old lives when completely free of parental care or
adult supervision.
A few
months after I moved to Cannes, I received a letter from my mother back in
Montreal. She wrote about how she’d gone into the city for a dentist appointment
and decided to stay in town and eat lunch before heading back to the suburbs.
The maitre d' of the restaurant she chose approached her and asked her if she
wouldn’t mind sharing her table with someone. She said yes, and a charming
elder Torontonian businessman came and sat at her table.
“You won’t
believe it. He’s originally from Newfoundland and one of his daughters is also
studying dance in Cannes. Her name is Nerida. Have you met her?”
Sure
enough, a few days later, Nerida came into the girls’ changing room and
searched me out. Her father had written her about this Canadian girl who
attended Trafalgar (the boarding school in Montreal) and was now in Cannes.
In bursts
this bubbly, curly-haired girl and runs over to me and says, “Hi. Did you go to
Trafalgar?” My response... “You must be fucking Nerida.”
After note:
this all happened over forty years ago.
Nerida and I became best of friends and our friendship remains deep and
loving and riddled with meaningful coincidences.
