Anything is Possible
and Some Unexpected Truth

It was an especially bleary day in London. A carpet of dense, grey mist so thoroughly coated the world that it made me wonder just how big a single cloud can be. Regardless, I’d had a joyful workday teaching little Chinese kids how to say “I eat bacon for breakfast!” and now it was time to get myself out of the house.

My mission was to walk to a new library, complete my membership, get a shiny, new library card, and check out a book that had been calling to me from the shelves of fate for a while now.

I have to say, there are few things more wonderful than a new library card. It’s the key to a castle built out of hundreds of thousands (sometimes millions!) of minds. It’s unlocking the immeasurable wealth of countless ideas, infinite knowledge, and such an abundance of creativity and human spirit. Honestly. No other plastic anything makes me this happy.

Libraries are community, peace, and freedom all rolled into one. And, if you’re lucky, there are comfy chairs and good coffee not far away. On a gross, grey day it’s one of my favorite ways to find light on this side of the clouds. If the pen is truly mightier than the sword then kings should have holed themselves up in libraries, not castles.

After accomplishing phase one of my mission, I surveyed the vast kingdom I’d just gained access to and then zoned in to try to find the book I came there for. I found the section, found the shelf, found the number, but it wasn’t there. So, I asked a librarian. She kindly pointed out that it was actually out on loan and due back on Friday. She said I could reserve it online which would prevent the person who has it now from renewing it but, I thought, What could be more bad-karma than that? “No, thank you,” I told her. “It’s just not time for me to read that book yet.”

I turned back to the stacks where I wandered over to the first shelf that happened to be in front of where my feet seemed to be walking. A “Fiction” shelf. Contrary to what it may seem on this blog so far, I don’t ordinarily read a lot of fiction, so I paused for a moment, prepared to not find anything interesting. And that’s when I saw it:

Anything Is Possible

Aha! That’s it. I knew it didn’t even matter who wrote it or what the book was about – that was the one. That was the message I was meant to receive. I left the library beaming with complete faith in the universe and the utter joy of having a new library card.

Beyond the cover and into the pages of Anything is Possible, I found vignettes of many intersecting lives, all laid bare in front of me: their challenges, their hardships, their pain, suffering, loss, anger, sadness, also their joys and indulgences, their connections and their disconnectedness. It was vital and raw; heartbreaking and honest. Truth be told, it was a lot for me to process and not exactly what I thought I needed to be reading at this moment in my life.

But then a few unexpected things happened.

As Vicky Barton was talking about her terrible job and her terrible life, she let slip a story that was a glimpse of a unique moment of love and connection; a moment of small magic. An elderly woman who spoke to no one in her nursing home (people thought she was mute) sidled up next to Vicky at the nurse’s station one day, quietly held her hand and then looked up at her to say, “Hi, Vicky.” Though it seems small, it was undoubtedly a shining moment of light in an otherwise fundamentally crappy life (as told through the eyes of Vicky).

And just as I read about this instance of unexpected human kindness, I looked up to see the city bus I was riding on come to a stop behind a van that was parked with its flashers on in the bus lane. We couldn’t get around it until either the van moved, or there was a break in the oncoming traffic (which was bumper-to-bumper as it was rush hour). I watched this situation unfold and braced for the inevitable honking and shouting. Maybe a few passengers on the bus with me would grumble or complain or scoff loudly. Maybe the van driver would appear, fists up, yelling profanities. I was so ready for the magic of Vicky’s story to be shattered by this very normal aspect of city living.

But it didn’t happen. None of that happened.

There was not a single horn beep, not a whisper of a complaint. It was actually remarkably silent on this busy road at rush hour. Then, after a minute or two of complete and utter patience – total stillness in the universe – a car in the oncoming traffic lane stopped, flashed their headlights, and let us pass by.

I’ve lived in many cities for many years and I’ve never ever seen such human civility on the road in rush hour traffic. For me, this was clearcut evidence that magic can only create more magic. No matter how small. No matter where it comes from. If everything in this life is connected solely by our perspective, then mine chooses to see the magic.

Then there was Mary Mumford. Mary with her view of the ocean and her daily swims. Mary with her yellow bikini. Mary who left her husband and grown children to run away with the love of her life at 51. Mary, who recognized her daughter when she was born. She recognized her.

Take that in for a minute.

More than anything else in this book, the idea that you could recognize someone the moment they are born, this struck me the hardest. It was a truth that I knew so deeply in my soul that it was like reading about my own memory before it even happened.

I have no children now, but I know with absolute certainty that I have a daughter. She’s out there, somewhere, right now; just a spirit waiting for a body. And I know that when she arrives, whenever that is, that I’ll know her – I’ll recognize her – because I’ve known her all my life. I’ve never before had this truth validated by any outside source, let alone a book, so reading this brief exchange between mother and daughter brought immense expansion and warmth to my heart.

Great fiction allows us to mimic human connection with totally fictional characters. No, we’re not really interacting, but we see ourselves (or the lack thereof) in the choices, words, actions, and characteristics of the people in stories like these and thus come to understand ourselves better. This is the magnificent power of words when they’re crafted expertly. I won’t say that this happened throughout this book for me, because it didn’t. But the few moments when it did, I was surprised by the profundity of it.

So, thank you, Elizabeth Strout. Even if only in a few instances, Anything is Possible proved to be much more than a well-placed phrase on a bookshelf; it understood me.

Books & References

Anything is Possible by Elizabeth Strout (2017)

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