Dear Maria,

A waitress in a resort once asked the Dalai Lama — the spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhism — what the purpose of life was. He responded, “happiness.”Then she asked him, how do we find happiness? To this, he replied, “that question is not so easy to answer.”

The first time I met my mentor, she asked me this question. “If you could wave a magic wand and completely change your life, what would it look like?” I knew, exactly; I told her. Then she asked me, “so then why are you here?” She knew that story then, of course; I didn’t.

I believe you can find happiness in the most unexpected of places, however. Let me give you a few examples so you get an idea.

While driving to work the other day, I saw a band of clouds — a single long, cloud, really — that stretched from the far edge of the horizon, over me, and well past me into the beyond. It was wide and flat and looked very solid. It reminded me of a bridge with no legs. I didn’t know how I could ever get up there, yet I knew if I found a way, I could go anywhere in the world. The thought of this made me extremely happy.

More recently, I saw a leaf fall from a tree. It fell from the topmost branch. The leaf, cupped and dry, resembled a partially closed hand. It looked like it clutched the air itself as it fell. I think it did. It fell so slowly it even seemed to pause at several steps refusing to fall any further for a moment. It rested there as if on an invisible step. I actually counted in my mind each time it did. Eventually, it landed. Perhaps the air did not want it to fall, either, and held it up. I felt oddly encouraged.

This happened a long time ago: an investment banker friend of mine abandoned me in a coffee shop in SoHo to go shopping; I wanted to read a book. It was Spring, and the snow had just melted. I sat at a table by the window, but because the water on the sidewalk and the street mirrored the sky, I felt like I was on a boat or the shore. The world never seemed more beautiful, and it all belonged to me alone. It remains one of the most beautiful sights and feelings I can remember.

I know you can find moments of happiness like these, too, but you must look outside yourself, forget yourself, and let yourself see the world around you clearly. It also amazes me how often we can feel happiness and sadness together, like sunshine during rain. I don’t think you can have one without a bit of the other. Never think less of your happiness if you also feel a little sad, too. You might even come to think like I do, that the saltiness makes it taste a little sweeter.

It takes time to learn how you will make your mark on the world. Personally, I should have figured it out much sooner — in first grade, in fact. My teacher then made me write a poem, and after I did, I felt so happy I couldn’t possibly describe it — I had discovered the magic you can make with words. Sadly, I did nothing about it until I grew much older. Does my writing make a difference to anyone now? I don’t know. I hope so.

I probably make more of a difference in peoples’ lives with scrambled eggs. No, really. I make amazing scrambled eggs. They make people very happy — they even make noises sometimes, in fact. I won’t tell you how I make them — it’s a French technique! — but I will make them for you if we ever meet and you get hungry. You don’t need to make a grand mark on the world, you only need to make people happy in the ways that you can.

(It’s also OK not to know yet. Not knowing means you still have every possibility available to you.)

I think, as individuals, we can solve any problem we have; however, often, we try to solve the wrong one. Most of us believe the problem is finding someone who can and will love us. However, for all of us, it usually is learning to love oneself so that you can love other people. Loving oneself is the foundation of loving another person, and without this ability — practically speaking — it’s unlikely we’ll find the love we seek.

Think about it. Even if you did find someone who loved you, how will you love them if you can’t even love the person without whom you would not exist, yourself? And how will you keep your beloved if you have nothing to offer them? It’s almost cliché to quote this proverb, but be careful when a naked man offers you his shirt. It points to an important truth, though — often, the problem a person has with another person they have with themselves.

I bought some new eyeglasses recently. They have oleophobic lenses, meaning, they repel oil; by contrast, my old glasses were decidedly oleophilic. Love is amorphilic. Love attracts love, powerfully. Also, I will tell you one of two “secrets” I know about love. If you really want a relationship to work, you need only follow one precept. It is: always. Without always, there is no relationship at all, just two people who know each other.

(It’s not that mystical, really. Always means you will have all the time you need to figure things out and every reason to.)

I adhere to an unpopular opinion. I believe it is easier to love and be happy than people think it is. I speak from experience. I think we’ve all learned how to love before (perhaps in another lifetime) so when we try now, we already know — we just don’t know that we do yet. Picture a man terrified of jumping out of a plane only to realize the plane is on the ground. Love frequently terrifies us because we believe it is something other than it is.

The only true mistake you can make in love is walking away…

What is love then? One answer immediately comes to mind — taking the time to understand someone, and before long, realizing that doing so makes you extremely happy. As a person wiser than me has said, “Love and understanding are not two separate things; they are one thing.” If love is anything, it’s learning, and the more mistakes you make, the more you learn. The only true mistake you can make in love is walking away, especially when you know you shouldn’t. I’ve made this mistake; please, don’t make it yourself.

In case I do not get another opportunity to share with you some of the things I have learned, I will quickly tell you two more important things. Now, listen up!

We too frequently confuse loving someone with needing them. We think, I must love her because I need her so badly. We would never allow ourselves to say to our beloved “I don’t need you; I can get along fine without you” because we think it means or proves we don’t love them at all. (How can we not need someone we say we love?) As a result, we fail to learn self-sufficiency and independence. Yet, we must achieve wholeness in order to love someone else truly.

If we do, we can offer our beloved two of life’s most precious gifts. First, we can give our beloved freedom because they will not always have to fulfill our needs. Second, we can give them the purest form of love, desire, because we invite them into our lives and encourage them to stay only because their presence brings us great joy. Yet all truths contain a paradox. If we truly love someone in this way, of course, we will feel like we need them.

(Also, always remember what your teacher taught you in grade school: leave things better than you found them — and people, too!)

I apologize if this all seems presumptuous — it wouldn’t be the first time! What your friend said about you spoke to me. I think I was you, once. It sounded — and felt — all too familiar. To be honest, I could have written you a letter twice this length — I had that much more to say to you. I hope this is enough, though. I hope this helps you, even in the smallest way. It has helped me. We know things we don’t know until we say them or write them, so thank you.

Maria, with happiness and love, we can accomplish anything. You will surely have both.

Very sincerely,

David

Dear Brynley,

I consider this letter to you my Christmas present. When I read about your dyslexia, it made me really happy.

I am writing a novel about dyslexia — specifically about two dyslexic people who fall in love.

(I don’t know which I love more, honestly — the fact that it’s a love story or the fact that it’s about dyslexia.)

I love love stories, especially love stories with happy endings. I really can’t tolerate any other kind.

(Of course, in the novel, I intentionally separate them so they have to write to each other. I know; I’m a bastard.)

I can tell you exactly when I fell in love with dyslexia, and why, and how, but that’s for another letter.

I am not dyslexic, but I think it’s beautiful. Can I say that without being offensive?

I honestly feel that way, though. It is not solely because I identify (a little bit) with this particular state of being, but I do.

To generalize and stereotype, dyslexic individuals are often brilliant. They see the world differently — literally.

Their powers — they really are powers — of perception, deduction, and associative thinking are, quite frequently, astonishing.

Dyslexic people — in my humble opinion — are nothing short of magic.

You have a relationship with the language we all share that is completely unique and your own. I envy you.

Yes, you will have your challenges, but who doesn’t? Fall in love with the “problems” in your life. They’re why you’re here.

Actually, they aren’t really problems; they are your life itself. You belong to them as much as they belong to you.

In the end, the longest and most intimate relationship you will have in your life will be with yourself, so make peace with yourself.

In the end, the longest and most intimate relationship you will have in your life will be with yourself, so make peace with yourself.

Accept. The. Beauty. Of. Who. You. Are.

Also, someday — being no one but yourself — you will perfectly complement someone, and they — being no one but themself — will perfectly complement you.

I think you can learn anything, especially how to relate to people, people of all kinds, too.

I have a little trick to share with you. (Yes, I had to learn this too, once.) It’s very easy and it always works.

What you do is [ … ].

If you do that, you will have gone 90 percent of the way you’ll have needed to go to make a friend that’s on your side, for good.

People mistakenly believe that only extroverts have an innate ability to interact with people.

Quite the opposite is true, however. No one knows better the inner workings of the heart — any heart — than an introvert.

Relax and trust yourself, and you can connect with anyone, deeply. I know this from personal experience, too.

Honestly, I don’t know how you could possibly fail at anything you try in life. You have it all. Plentifully.

There’s one thing you don’t have, however — a copy of my book! I have to write it first, though. If you like, I’ll send you one.

A person only needs so many door-stops!

Sincerely,

David

Dear Torri,

Before leaving for breakfast with my friend one morning, she received a call. I sat and listened, starving. (I’m always “starving,” though.) I could tell it was serious. She did more listening than talking plus she spoke very kindly but firmly. I loved watching and listening to her: I know she has a big heart, but I don’t usually get to see her in action.

She always tells me stories. For example, on her way home from work one night, she saw an elderly woman sitting by a tree on the side of the road, piqued. Of course, nobody stopped to see if this woman was alright except my friend. The old woman had walked too far in the heat and couldn’t make it home because of her age and frailty, so my friend drove her.

She doesn’t tell me these stories — and she has a lot of them to tell — for any type of recognition, although, of course, I spoil her with praise every time. She tells me because, when she tells me about her day, these moments invariably form a part of it, along with her magnanimous decency and casual heroism. She honestly doesn’t think anything of it, though.

For a couple of years, I would stop and chat with Bobby each morning on the way to my daily, coffee-shop writing appointment. He “lived” on the corner across the street. Other than his homelessness, I considered him merely another acquaintance. We talked about what anyone who saw each other every day would talk about — the weather, how’s work (mine), weekend plans? I missed him when he wasn’t there, like any friend.

I don’t consider myself special, either. In fact, I consider myself a failure. I could have and should have done so much more for Bobby than I did. Why didn’t I? I thought about it, but it felt like something I couldn’t do. I told myself, I didn’t know how to help him. Lately, I have written a lot of letters like this — it doesn’t make this one any less special, though — because this feels like something I can do.

To be honest, even this exhausts me. If you commit yourself to this process, you have to assume the burdens of the people you write to; it doesn’t work any other way. You must empathize — wear their pain to understand it first, then help them get out of it next. I couldn’t possibly understand the burden that you and others like you carry who actually help people instead of just writing them letters.

it looked like a little part of the soul of everyone they had helped had become a part of their own…

I watched people I knew who did what you do slowly balloon. They looked like they had filled up with hot air, first gradually, then more quickly, as if, eventually, they would burst. Of course, it stemmed from very ordinary things — sleeping too little, eating and drinking too much to cope. I remember thinking, it looked like a little part of the soul of everyone they had helped had become a part of their own soul over time.

It gave me pause and still does, about helping others in any serious way, but something in me, like something in you, can’t look away, either. We do the things we do because we have to, because we doubt others will if we don’t; so we care for other people, on behalf of other people. I can’t tell you not to do it any more than I can tell myself not to do it. I think I can give you only one piece of advice, which applies to me, too.

Tend to your own needs the way you attend to those of others. You probably treat strangers with greater kindness than yourself, so treat yourself like a stranger sometimes, if you must, to get what you need. You know the pain people show is a fraction of the pain they have; why do you think you’re any different? You think you can “handle it,” but you know not everyone can manage on their own, not always. Accept what you give; it’s only fair.

It takes more time than you think for it not to feel odd anymore, though; I know. Recently, I saw a video on the internet of a woman hugging her friend. The friend resisted the hug, but you could see on her face, when she relented, how badly she wanted and needed it. She absorbed the love of the other person; you could see it. I once fought what I wanted most, though not anymore. I think we give what we want. However, don’t love others as a way to love or to avoid loving yourself.

As I get along, the more I think nothing really matters except the needs of those around us. Not merely loving them, but caring for them, also. If joy is hugging someone who needs it, then happiness is when hugging that person pleases you, also. We must seek both if we wish to give both. We cannot give what we do not have. One is essential, the other very nearly so. It is not selfish, either; when healthy, we can do the most good.

Torri, I wish you the ability to help as many people as you can and the satisfaction that you did so.

Sincerely,

David

Dear K.,

First, I am deeply sorry for your loss.

I hope you will forgive my bluntness, but I want to ensure I express three points clearly. Please trust their good intentions.

It’s not your fault. Despite whatever belief or temptation you may harbor, it simply isn’t. You do have a responsibility, though.

Love yourself deeply and well, get help if ever you think you need it, and if someone needs help — whether they ask for it or not — offer it to them.

Grieve — as much and for as long as you need to. Listen to your own heart, and your own feelings, and don’t obey anyone’s rules about it.

Grief, though we’re told this, has no pattern or linearity; still, don’t fear it. Healing, in whatever form it takes, will come from it.

You may never have closure, and that’s OK because you truly loved. Real love never ends so closure, in these instances, simply does not exist.

Eventually, however, you can make peace with that fact. It may not seem like it now, but you can, and it doesn’t lessen your love any.

Peace be with you.

David

Dear Zelda,

It has come to my attention that some people think I’m crazy. This letter probably won’t help matters any. I had intended to write you a letter of various questions, but then something happened. Do you remember telling me that story you told me? (Of course, you do — how could you forget?) You shared it with me that day in your old office at All Saints.

It only occurred to me just now that you always had to yell at me for going straight to your office instead of going to the rector’s office first before our meetings — which is what the sign by your office said to do, lol. That tells you everything you need to know about me, doesn’t it? I’d better retell that story, though, so this all makes sense.

You said, shortly after your first husband passed away, you decided to take a drive. Suddenly, you felt the strong urge to pull over. You got out of the car, and in a moment, a flock of white birds leapt out of the brush alongside the road and flew away. You said, those birds shouldn’t have been there that time of year. You said, you were sure it was your husband’s spirit saying goodbye to you.

Did I tell it right? You told me this story after you told me to ask for a sign when I needed guidance. (I still remember the first time I did; I still haven’t quite recovered from it.) Anyway, Tuesday, I headed for my usual coffee shop. Outside, I asked for a sign. I needed … direction. I asked, inexplicably, for a black dot, then I went inside and wrote for a few hours.

Afterward, as I left the coffee shop and stood at the threshold of the open parking lot, a murder of crows — two or three hundred of them — filled the blank sky above me and circled overhead. I stood there, in disbelief, watching this terrifying, whirling, more or less round, black dot — comprised of hundreds of smaller black dots — churn over me, noisily and restlessly, swirling in a slow ominous spiral, like a pot being stirred.

For anyone who thinks I’m over-the-top, the Universe is way more over-the-top than me. I thought of reaching for my phone and taking a picture, but it seemed sacrilegious. Anyone who needed proof didn’t matter; the point is faith. Besides, truth does not require evidence; it is evidence of itself. I thought of everyone who’d ever told the truth only to face stalwart disbelief or ridicule. I especially thought of women, the least believed of us all.

Zelda, I wonder myself if I’m crazy sometimes. After all, if you were crazy you’d think yourself sane, and if you felt completely sane, you might have no greater proof of being crazy. To investigate this, I asked my bestie if she thought I was crazy. After all, of everyone I know, she probably knows me best, or nearly the best. She didn’t need any time to think over her answer. She responded, immediately:

“Unbalanced or unstable? Absolutely not. Do I think you’re passionate and wildly imaginative and maybe a little skewed. Yup. You’re eccentric and self-absorbed (not always a bad thing!) and introspective and emotional and empathetic and compassionate and generous and thoughtful. By skewed, I mean … biased. You’re awake and alive.” I am whole-heartedly “biased”; so is she.

What would be really crazy, I believe, is to deny all the things I’ve witnessed. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth … than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” After all, if “God has placed eternity in our hearts,” as it is said, why not also the impossible in our lives? Surely, in time, anything is possible. Our experiences — what we see, feel, and cannot contradict — give us an entryway to our souls because they are our own, inexplicable truths. “With each and every circumstance / I lose knowledge and gain innocence.”

You could easily mistake me for a religious zealot on account of these stories, Zelda — but the truth is, as you know, I don’t understand any of this, either. That’s why I kept coming, even when I didn’t need to anymore. I have only ever loved things I could not understand — music for one, love for another — I don’t even understand myself most days. I am both questioner and question. There is no “mystery of the faith”; faith is mystery.

However, in the end, I wonder if this is about anything more than being in love with the world — not as I wish it to be — but as it is, in all its frustrating and cryptic beauty. “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.” So much of what makes perfect sense to me I could never ever explain, no matter how hard I tried. There can be no question, though, that I am indeed a “Mad Man”; I’m in advertising!

I will write again, soon.  I need to. Though I can’t explain why, it is how I love. One way, anyway.

I miss you so much.

David

p.s. — We’re not supposed to figure it out, are we? Because, “if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable,” right? Or has this already happened?

Dear Zelda,

At first, I wasn’t sure how to get this letter to you. For a moment, I considered holding my own personal tōrō nagashi, but I considered that over-the-top even for me, the King of Over-the-top. Plus, I wasn’t sure if that would work for Episcopalians. (Perhaps I should try it just to find out.) Finally, I thought, I might as well just post your letter here, “in the ether”; I figured it being here, you would probably find it eventually. I wonder if that’s true, though.

I don’t know why I decided to write to you. After all, we talk all the time, so, in some respect, it is kind of like going backwards. Then again, I do everything in reverse, so it makes sense for me — never mind that I like to write people letters, though not just anyone. Ultimately, I still believe you can say things to people in letters you can’t say to them in any other way. Honestly though, I think you put the idea into my head. It seems like something you would have suggested I do.

While I have a couple of things to tell you, I should first start out by thanking you. I never got to do that in person. I always thought I would have the chance to, at least over the telephone. Why didn’t I call you? Sure, I thought I would always be able to, but mostly, I was too proud for your help — and yet I pester you even today. I know you understand it’s hard to be on the receiving end of help all the time. At that moment, it made me angry that I still needed it — your perennial kindness irked me — but I’m not so proud now.

Zelda, thank you for taking my bullshit “problems” seriously. You never once told me I should do community service or some such non-sense like that. Plus, you always believed in my writing and encouraged me to do it. Do you remember that mantra you made for me? I still say it, occasionally. It chokes me up every time. At first, I thought it consisted of things you wanted for me; finally, I realized it consisted of things I didn’t believe about myself, but which were ultimately true. That’s what gets me about it. You knew. I’m still waiting for the third part to happen, though. Increasingly however, I believe it will.

I don’t know if you’re always around or not — I hope to God you’re not, because that would just be creepy — but the other day something happened which I thought you would appreciate. You were the first person I thought to tell about it. As you know, in every relationship, there often comes a moment when you have nothing to say to the other person, so you reflexively and meaninglessly say “I love you.” This probably happens to everybody, right? Is anyone immune to it? You say the words, which are already immaterial, but, in addition, they are also meaningless, further rending them of any reality.

Well the other day, I said something unexpectedly which I meant with every part of my being. It was, for me at least, the most absolute truth — one of only a few for me. Sometimes you can say a thing so true it becomes physical, tangible; you can reach out and touch it like a doorknob or a coffee mug. What I said then became physically real. This happened to me once before, too. I wonder, now, if these truths function as some sort of fence posts, delineating something — not just what I believe, but who I am, my place in “the Universe,” as you might say. I don’t know; I thought you might appreciate this. Do you think you can touch truth?

I have also been thinking a lot about ‘sensitivity,’ lately. I sense things. I don’t think much of it, though. It is no different than a dog being able to smell more discerningly than a person, or a bird being able to see farther and clearer than one; it is just an acute sense. Others, most likely, have a better sense of balance than me, but I have a better sense of I don’t know what than them. I sense presence, feelings, and the movement of each, I suppose. I also sense truth, regardless of externalities. I also feel things a bit more keenly than others might. Again, I consider it trivial, just a difference, the way women see color “better” than men do.

That means very little. What means something, however, is the conclusion I arrived at this afternoon — that, inevitably, those characteristics come with immense responsibilities. The first one I think I can handle — to communicate my observations, like a scout or look-out, back to the rest of the world. I do that all the time; I write. Of course, I get the most perverse thrill from it, so I can hardly consider it a noble calling. However, the responsibility which troubles me is this: imminently knowing the pains and the joys of being a human also requires me to relieve the pain of those who suffer from it and to bring joy to people who don’t have it. You understand the problem completely, don’t you? It means everyone.

Needless to say, I felt daunted by that, exhausted by just the thought of it, in fact. Without doubt, you can ignore the question for as long as you like, but you can never make the question go away. The question is, “are you going to rise to your responsibilities, or not?” Zelda, I’m going to give myself credit for just acknowledging that a responsibility exists and that a question is there. I can’t possibly handle that awesome burden. I can barely make myself lunch four days in a row. I’m such an idiot. I wish I had asked you more about this when I had the chance. Not about this topic, in particular, but just about why you left everything behind to do what you did. What finally convinced you to do it. I wish I could have known so much more about your experience.

One more thing and I’ll close for now. You’ll love this. A dear friend texted me a pic — she said she thought of me when she saw it — it’s a meme, I guess. I was going to describe it, but why don’t I just include it here, instead?

I love two things about this. One, it’s exactly who I am, and two, she knows that about me. Maybe everyone who knows me knows that about me, though. All the same, I loved it, and not only did I need it, but also it came at the precise right moment. Why does that even surprise me?

OK, I will write again soon. I hope I haven’t kept you from anything more important. How exactly do you spend your time these days? I’m curious. It would be great to get a little advance warning, so I can begin getting my head around it.

Sincerely, and with much love,

David