Robert McNeil: You're reading, I'm writing – now there's a coincidence

AS IT happens, I've been thinking a lot about coincidence. My attention was first brought to the phenomenon when I bought a book by Alvin Schwartz, who'd spent much of his career writing stories for the Superman comics. I've become obsessed with the Superman myth in recent months.

I grew up with him, but hadn't thought much about him again until recently when, feeling lost, I tried finding examples of wholesomeness, the fight for what is right and good, and so forth. I Googled such things on the internet, and also tried looking up "midwestern values" and so forth.

Nothing concrete came up. Then I started watching the Smallville television series, and everything came together. Here was the young Clark Kent, learning moral values from his midwest parents, Jonathan and Martha. Later coincidental identifications arose, when I found myself accidentally wearing a red cloak in the middle of the night.

But that's a long story and will keep for another time. Meantime, I've also been reading books about Buddhism. I found volumes I'd had since my early twenties, and supplemented these with the usual mad splurge on Amazon. I can't remember how the recent interest came about. I think I was looking for books on Taoism, linking in with my tai chi, and came upon some rather well-written and thoughtful books about the big B. As no bearded deity is involved, I didn't feel intellectually compromised and, while my skeptometer was set to maximum setting ten-plus, I kept an open mind and, at the very least, hoped the techniques for meditation would be helpful.

I've no problems with meditation. It stops what the Chinese call "the monkey mind" chattering and gives the brainlobes a rest. I've also been hoping to get rid of a terrific anger that has boiled in me every day for the past three years or so. Buddhists discourage anger and revenge, though I remain unclear about how justice can be imposed otherwise. With counselling?

Anyway, it turned out that Alvin Schwartz's book was a supposed memoir about how he'd met a Tibetan Buddhist "tulpa", or real being created from the imagination, who showed the writer how his Superman had also come to life. It was entertaining and thought-provoking, but had to be read as metaphor or fiction, even though it was dressed up as truth.

The second coincidence was spookier, since it was less about intellectual or cultural interests – always liable to coincide – and more related to particular details in my life. Lana Lang, the unconsummated love of Clark's life, was attending physio on crutches – just as I had been! Then, in a later scene, a murdered journalist was shown lying on the ground, on his side, with a pencil sticking out of his ear. Only days earlier, I'd been lying in exactly the same position, except I had a Hopi ear candle sticking out of my lug, for a piece I was writing on complementary health techniques.

I'd been dreading the photograph, since the Hootsman has a sadistic history of making a fool of me with these, and so I feared the worst – and thought the dead journalist might be a premonition. But, for once, the photie was fine.

The third coincidence was dream-like. I'd been to Paul Smith's in Musselburgh for another haircut and, afterwards, had taken a walk on the beach, where I thought about how the clouds, the sea and me were all just vibrating energy – ken? I'd wanted to hit the High Street, just for a bit of life and a look at the shops, but went out of my way to go down another street, where I think I once had family, including a grandfather who may have been kicked on the heid by a horse here (he looked after them at the Co-op stables). I was always told he'd died – eventually – from the injury. Near the end of the street, I found a strange little shop. It sold Buddhist trinkets and artefacts.

I'd been clearing out a windowed cubby-hole in ma hoose to make a place for extracurricular writing, and had also thought to make a wee meditation space. The trinkets would help set the atmosphere, even if the exercise was the tiniest bit tongue-in-cheek. I entered the shop. The shopkeeper came out from the back, gave an enigmatic smile and said "hello", but nothing more. A grandfather clock struck a Westminster chime, a sound I've always loved. It was like something out of Mr Benn. I half-expected to go through the back and be transported to strange and wonderful places.

But I bought my beautiful gew-gaws, made some light conversation, and left. And, as if by further coincidence, I have to leave you now.

• Read Robert McNeil every Tuesday and Friday in The Scotsman.