Coincidence

            Hi there reader, I hope the wheels are running smoothly for you. Tonight I’ve got an old story on the brain, this old, possibly apocryphal story about Archimedes. Now, old Archimedes had a reputation around town for being a clever sort of a fellow, even if he was a bit of an eccentric, so when the local king (or some tyrant or senator or bourgeois or nobleman or what-have-you) ran into any particularly vexing problem of engineering, he made it a habit to ask Archimedes what his thoughts were on the issue. One day the king summons Archimedes and tells him, “I received this gift, this really wonderful little gold statue, from the ambassador from the next town over. As a sign of good will and friendship between our great cities.”

            Archimedes nods for a moment, looks at the sky, wonders a bit how birds manage to fly, says, “You don’t say.”

            “Right, but the thing is, the ambassador is such a little skinflint, a real ugly fellow too… but that’s not the point. The point is, I want you to tell me if it really is made out of gold. I’d just love a good excuse to kick him out of town. Can you find a way to, you know, test it out like you do?”

            Archimedes tugs on his mustache a bit, decides that birds’ souls must be made of fire, which would account for their upward-motion, says, “Sure.”

            Archimedes wanders home, frowning. He’s realized that the fire theory is no good, since if the birds’ souls were simply made of fire, they’d never manage to get back to earth. You’d just look up at the sky and see those birds floating up and up and up… they’d probably make a mess once they hit the spheres of the heavens, maybe even knock the planets out of their courses. No, no, no, it’s all wrong. Gods, this day’s been a wash, now hasn’t it Archimedes, old boy? Wasn’t I supposed to see the king today? Hmm… maybe it’s the wings that do it.

            So Archimedes gets home, birds on the brain. Within a few weeks he’s worked up a few hypotheses about birds’ wings, which he’s integrated with a few speculations on the possibility that the bird soul could possibly be a kind of synthesis of fire and earth. This, after all, would allow the bird not only to fly in the heavens but to return safely to earth… although he’s run into some theoretical difficulties as to the nature of this interaction. Hmm… maybe the wings have something to do with that, as well.

            But anyways, as he’s working away at all these avian difficulties, poring over a few Farmer’s Almanacs and thumbing through the Encyclopedia Britannica—Wikipedia didn’t exist in those days, you know—his wife (her name immortalized throughout the centuries as “Archimedes’ Wife”) interrupts his reveries, saying, “So, Archie, how’s the king’s gold problem coming along?”

            Archimedes suddenly remembers that the king’s been waiting on him for weeks, plunges into panic and despair, thinks a bit more about birds, goes back to panic and despair, croaks “Just fine, dear,” and promptly faints.

            When Archimedes comes to, he admits that his work for the king has been a bit lacking lately, “Although I have been doing some important work on the secret of flight.” Phantoms of exile, humiliation, and a still deeper, unthinkable loss flash before his eyes. What if (and he nearly faints once more at this thought) the king’s family stops sitting next to the Archimedeses at the Temple of Hermes? What will the apophants say?

            In a small voice he asks his wife, “What do I do now?”

            Shaking her head with an amused air, she tells him, “Go take a bath, for now. Clear your mind. You’ll figure it out, Archie.”

            So Archimedes draws a bath… and the rest is history. The bath is just a little too full as he’s getting in, so some of the nice, hot water spills out onto the floor. In a flash, he realizes that by submerging the golden statue in water it becomes possible to measure its volume precisely, so that after weighing it we can tell the difference between true and false gold by its density. Archimedes is so excited by this realization that he creates a bit of a scandal by immediately running out into the streets, wet, naked, and dripping, shouting “Eureka!” in a voice that would melt fire.

            Now, there are plenty of lessons we could take from this story, but the reason it’s been on my mind so much lately is because it really shows us the incredibly powerful role that coincidence plays in our lives. Archimedes’ wife just happened to tell him to take a bath, the bath just happened to run over, and because Archimedes just happened to be in a state of nervous anxiety he was able to make a great discovery. If someone would have made up the story, we would say it stretches credulity because there’s too great a dependence on coincidence. Surely, surely, there was something arranging these pieces, some guiding hand that, when it shows itself, shows itself through the mask of coincidence.

            Or take a more “mundane” case of coincidence: I just happened to write this, and you, reader, just happened to read it. What could be more simple, what could be more miraculous, what could be more coincidental than the very fact that daily life happens—and it’s even got a pattern to it, here and there a flourish, a wink, something shiny. Hmm… maybe it’s the wings that do it.

            Whatever it is, I wish you a marvelous day, reader.