Omne Trium Perfectum

Dear Chewey,

I was going to title this post 3>Sum, with a wink and nod to my beloved theory of Gestalt, which you’ve heard me talk about ad nauseam as the concept that the “whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” but I was afraid it might end up on the wrong sort of Google algorithms. So I have chosen a Latin title that I think captures the content of this post well.

For as long as people have been telling stories, the number three has held a special place. Aristotle himself argued that every good story or argument needs a beginning, middle, and end—a three-part structure that helps people learn and remember more easily. The Romans picked up on this and made it a cornerstone of rhetoric, coining the phrase omne trium perfectum—everything that comes in threes is perfect. And it’s not just in philosophy: the Greeks spoke of three Fates, fairy tales promise three wishes, and even modern speeches land best when built around three points. There’s something about threes that just feels complete, like the universe is wired to recognize balance when it shows up in sets of three.

I noticed that rhythm in Edinburgh almost from the moment I arrived. One morning it was three conversations with strangers, each one more genuine than the last, that left me grinning as I walked the Royal Mile. Another day, I found myself ducking into three different pubs back-to-back, each with its own quirks, each one better than the one before. Even wandering down the side streets, it felt like the city was nudging me along with a steady beat: not once, not twice, but three times over, as if to remind me to stop and take it all in.

That old phrase—omne trium perfectum, everything that comes in threes is perfect—kept floating through my head. Two of something might feel like luck, but three makes it feel intentional, like you’ve stumbled into a rhythm bigger than yourself. In Edinburgh, it was impossible to miss. Everywhere I turned, the city seemed to hand me little triplets of joy, and I realized maybe the magic of threes isn’t just in old stories—it’s in the way we live our own.

Let me illustrate how, while in Edinburgh, reminders of the power and beauty of three continued to be on display.

“Of all my friends, Mark is my oldest… errr… these days I refrain from using ‘oldest’ too often, so how about this: Mark is the one I’ve known the longest. And it just so happened that Mark and his three brothers spent (wait for it…) three days with me in Edinburgh during this phase of my journey.

Mark and I first met in 1984, not long after my mom moved us back to Portland from Idaho. His dad was the pastor at the church my grandparents attended, and since we were living with them while my mom got settled, we ended up in many Sunday school’s together. That’s where I spotted him—a kid who looked like he’d combed his hair with a balloon, the eight-year-old version of Boris Johnson with a fuzzy afro. I liked him immediately. He was disarming, self-effacing, and kind, the kind of boy who could make me laugh at a time when smiles were in short supply.

Mark became my first real anchor at a new school, which was no small thing for a kid whose parents had just separated and who was trying to find his footing. The bullies didn’t make it easy—nicknaming him “fuzz” and even once dunking him in a ball bin to see if he’d bounce. We laugh about it now, but back then it was rough. Luckily, we had protection in the form of my uncle Dale, a 13-year-old big brother figure who took it upon himself to shield me, my little brother, and, by extension, Mark. Looking back, those days were the first sign that three kids banding together could make all the difference.

As fast as the friendship blossomed, though, it was put on pause. Mark and his (wait for it…) three brothers transferred schools the next year, and my family returned to a different church when my parents reconciled. In a world without cell phones or social media, and with our parents just trying to keep life together, it was easy for two third-grade boys to drift apart. Just like that, our friendship seemed over. Until, that is, fate handed me a second chance. By high school, I was once again the “new kid,” and there was Mark—steady, familiar, and ready to make sure I had a place to land.

The third chapter came in 1999, when Mark suggested I move with him to Colorado. That decision became the launchpad for everything that followed: meeting my wife, building a career, and creating the life I live today. It’s not an exaggeration to say that Mark’s encouragement, prayers, and advice were the rocket fuel for a trajectory I might never have found on my own. In 2nd grade, in high school, and then again in Colorado—three turning points, three times when he helped me navigate my way forward.

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to the importance of three when I think about Mark. He’s the youngest of four brothers, all of whom have been like family to me at different times—landlords, job references, holiday hosts—but it’s Mark who has been there for me in three of life’s biggest moments. Over three decades of friendship. Three times over when I needed him most. If ever there was proof that good things really do come in threes, it’s this friendship.

And then, as if to drive the point home, Edinburgh kept delivering its own sets of threes.

One night I found myself with three very different women—Hollie, Tammy, and Kathie—all friends from Oklahoma. Each had lost their first three husbands to different tragedies, yet together we laughed until our sides hurt, playing dirty slapjack after a literary pub tour; a night that didn’t end until 3 a.m.

On another evening, I stumbled into a bachelorette party with JoJo, Sarah, and Ash. What began as a chance encounter turned into a three hours of laughter and stories, capped perfectly after three drinks, like the universe itself was keeping count.

And just when I thought the pattern might fade, it showed up again in the most ordinary way: three hours spent in a pub three miles from the Royal Mile, drinking three pints with three locals—Angela, Terry, and Tom. The jukebox played along, spinning “Three Marlenas” and “Three Times a Lady,” as if even the music wanted to be part of the theme.

Never mind the fact that Edinburgh also happened to be my third stop on this magical journey through Europe—fitting, perhaps, given that the European Union’s founding Maastricht Treaty was built on what became known as the “Three Pillars of Integration.”

Chewey, looking back, Edinburgh felt like more than just a stop on my itinerary—it was a reminder that life often speaks in patterns if we’re willing to listen. Three sets of three strangers, at three pubs, the whole of whom (Gestalt) became friends who have further shaped my life—the city wove the number into everything I touched, like a secret code meant just for me. Maybe that’s the real beauty of threes: they give us a sense of wholeness, a feeling that the story is both complete and still unfolding. And now, with Edinburgh behind me as the third chapter of this journey, it feels only right that the next page turns to Munich; I’m ready to see what patterns will reveal themselves there.