How to make magic

What's the deal with synchronicity?

Last Tuesday was First Warm Day in New York. That’s an official holiday here.

You don’t know exactly when it’s going to happen because it gets to a point during a painful winter when you just give up on looking at the forecast and resign to continual wretchedness.

But when it does, you feel like a completely new person, as though your soul has just bloomed a field of blue hydrangeas, puffy and plump with new promise.

Signs of spring in New York are different from, say, the English countryside, but equally as exhilarating:

I’m always reminded of the only sentence I ever remember reading from four years of high school literature:

“We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner.” —Gatsby, who else

So it was exactly that type of day, and I made my triumphant return to the weekday farmers market, which was spread in warmth as though the sky was buttering her toast with sunshine right here in Brooklyn.

I erroneously expected the stalls to be teeming with berries and melons and all the produce-jewels of early summer, but alas it was March. The offerings were more like alliums and turnips, but no matter, it was all still very magical.

A couple magical things happened while I was there:

*On my way over, I happened upon a group of new U.S. citizens coming out of their citizenship ceremony, which is the happiest scene I regularly see in my neighborhood—but I never know when it’s going to happen! It’s my version of Prime Minister Hugh Grant’s insane idea in ‘Love Actually’ to go to the airport when you lose faith in humanity, watching people reunite. I LOVE watching people gather their loved ones to take photos outside, and I LOOOOOOVE walking through and saying “Congratulations!!!” to each person.

*When I got to the market, I bought produce and baked goods from three different stands. Each purchase was $28. Twenty-eight is my lucky number.

*Earlier that morning, I had meditated on the word “growth.” All over the market, I saw tons of employees and signs from GROW NYC.

*A woman with beads weaving through her hair and lavender clogs was collecting signatures to get a new mayoral candidate on the ballot. I’m always happy to sign those things since I know that can’t be an easy job. She looked pathetic as a lost puppy searching for people to sign, when she suddenly switched directions and bumped into me and I was ready with my pen. “I just turned around and there you were!” she said. “Look at God!” I replied with one of my favorite Southernisms.

*On my way to the market, I was learning some phrases in Nepali to say to my beloved manicurist. The guys at my favorite produce stand were speaking in an unfamiliar-to-me language so I asked what it was (I get this shameless habit from my linguist father). “Nepali,” they replied. I practiced saying “Good morning!” with my new words.

*On my way out of the market, I gasped when I saw this flower pot holding an entire school of pre-teen tulips. Somehow the godawful ugly building in the background made the adorable scene even more poignant:

Did all these glimmers and coincidences conspire toward the most supernatural magic-sorcery morning of my life? Not even close.

This kind of morning happens to me a lot.

And it got me thinking about a life question I’ve been playing with for years, like silly putty in an old pocket that I inconspicuously squish while I’m on the subway:

Do magical things happen more often to specific people? Squish squish. Or are they happening all the time and some people just notice them more often? Squish. Where do they come from? Can you summon them to happen?

The last question is where I can really work myself up into a tizzy.

I’ve already made my feelings about ‘manifestation’ known: an offensive-at-best, dangerous-at-worst concept that sounds to me like a fun secular version of the prosperity gospel—which you might imagine I’m not too keen on either.

Then again, I pray all day long.

But it’s more like a hangout session than a petition, and a lot of “Hey, thanks!” Which would imply that I think these shimmering coincidental moments come as packages directly from God to straight in front of my eyeballs, but I don’t believe that.

Well, not exactly.

I used to post a series on Instagram called “Magical Things I’ve Seen in NYC,” a collection of whimsical observations I gathered starting the summer I moved here:

They were quite popular and even got featured on these mysterious phone-charging stations all over the city:

As I posted more and more of these, I noticed a funny trend in the comment section—among the “Awww”s and the inevitable “This is so wholesome”s.

People started asking directly, “Did this actually happen?” “Are all of these real?”

At first, these mini investigations bothered me and made me feel defensive. As a writer, I’m prone to embellishments and sometimes worry that I’m a few missed medication doses away from accidentally pulling an Anna Delvey because it’s fun for me to pretend and make up stories.

In another story for another day, I got kicked out of a storytelling event (The Moth, if you must know) because beforehand I admitted to meshing two characters and got a long scoldy email about integrity and ethics.

Did I just do that here?? I panicked.

I knew I didn’t. But that wasn’t the point.

I thought it was fascinating how those commenters seemed to be questioning their own emotional reactions to something that…may not be factual. (The horror!)

I wanted to respond, “They did really happen, but what if they didn’t? What would that change for you?”

Would it threaten their faith in New York, in people, in magic? What exactly was the consequence of being moved by something made up?

After all, that’s never stopped anyone from crying during the pig movie Babe or gobbling popcorn in nervous suspense during a thriller about being trapped in a shark cage.

But I must admit, I get it.

My formative-years brain was formed in a church that wrung their hands over facts and certainties rather than mysteries and intellectual puzzles. They talked about finding archeological evidence of Noah’s Ark, and made too-easy conclusions about dinosaurs.

It was all very confusing. Am I supposed to be focusing on loving my neighbor, or trying to figure out whether a newfound dinosaur bone will crush the empire of Christendom?

What I learned later, by the grace of God, is that certainty is the opposite of faith, and that “true” doesn’t always mean “factual,” and that “We don’t know” or “Let’s use our imaginations” is a holy response to good questions (rather than financing an archeological dig).

Now I am able to believe in something true, even if none of it actually happened.

But my brain-blob was still formed in that Certainty Lab, so it’s still ingrained in me to search for certitude. This comes up most often when I see “based on a true story” on screen and I spend the rest of my one wild and precious day looking up all the facts behind the movie, just to ensure I wasn’t inadvertently emoting over a screenwriter’s fluffy exaggeration.

It also comes up when these tiny miracles float around my morning at the farmers market. What exactly is happening there? And, more importantly: Can I allow myself to believe in it? And What will happen if I do?

It’s a little scary, daring to believe in something that may not have hard scientific legs.

I’ve just spent a few agonizing weeks going through all the fact checks in my book, which is torture for a mystic like me.

“I don’t know if this is true. Add primary source,” the disembodied bright red text commands all over my manuscript, like a much less benevolent version of Nickelodeon’s Ghostwriter.

I want to snark back, “My eyeballs are the primary source. My SOUL is the primary source!”

Do we need cold hard proof that I’ve seen pigeons grieve over their dead babies? Or can we possibly dare to believe that the world is full of wonders we will never understand?

I’ve been told a lot in my life to PROVE something that I know in my body, not in a bibliography of cited sources. As my king Eminem said: “I can’t tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like.”

But what bothers me the most about these bright red directives is that I instantly recognize them coming from a place of fear: What if someone disagrees? What if you can’t convince readers to buy into your ethos? What if people don’t read this book? What if your career is over?

I recognize those fears because, hello, I have lived them every day.

I also recognize them from the Noah’s-Ark-proving escapades. “We need to make sure we have proof” in order to follow the teachings to love one another?

The entire point of my book is to live with astonishment, which must be an opposite of fear. It’s taken me a long time to get there, but it’s changed everything.

Book-writing desk with abundant astonishment nearby

Back to magic and how to make it.

A few years ago, I was walking through the park and passed by a swan-like figure who looked like he was chiseled into a volucrine human draped in cheetah print and bespectacled in sophisticatedly tiny sunglasses. I noticed him as I walked by and went along my jolly way.

I sat on a bench to drink my iced latte and probably read a trashy gossip site on my phone, when I saw him swoop by me and drop off a note torn from a lined notebook. Then completely disappeared.

On this thin page, he apologized for “dramatically pushing his sunglasses down” as I walked by, but my work has meant a lot to him, and he explained why. Signed, Emmet.

The next day, I posted an illustration inspired by his beautifully revealing message. “For Emmet,” I captioned it.

I thought about him daily for years because I kept his note affixed to my desk. When I wanted to quit, his words kept me going. My work has improved because of him. I feel like my work matters because of him. Ours felt like a spiritual connection, and I tried so many (probably very invasive) ways to try and find him, but I never could.

Eight years later, I was waiting for a train in another part of the city, at an odd time for me to be waiting for the train. In my own train-waiting world, I was surprised when a cloaked mysterious gentleman approached me on the platform.

“Hi, I’m Emmet,” he said. “You made a drawing for me years ago.”

“I’ve been looking for you!” I shouted into his face.

All the coincidences made my sternum thump. I left the interaction grateful and bewildered. And then I got to thinking yet again: Where do magical things come from? Can you summon them?

When I asked, my mentor put it this way: “No one likes to give gifts to an unappreciative recipient. I give a lot of thanks and praise to my Creator because I love when these things happen. In turn, He enjoys giving me presents I’ll be psyched about.”

I was so tickled by that explanation, and happily held tight to it. I’m a very enthusiastic present-opener, so it must be a delight for my Creator to send me little stocking stuffers throughout the year! So maybe the moments aren’t within my power, but within my power to cherish.

Emmet’s note under my spirit guides Saraswati and zebras :)

Then a couple weeks ago I read a much different theory that equally resonated with me.

It was from my friend Alejandro’s newsletter, which I can’t recommend enough, if you can get the gist from reading Spanish.

He was reflecting on his life-resurrecting trip to Dollywood (yep, Dolly Parton’s amusement park), and he wrote it with such tenderness and love for life that I was buzzing with belief (in life, in magic, in Dolly!) the rest of the day.

The climax of Alejandro’s highly entertaining tale was when he was able to see Dolly in person at the parade celebrating opening day of the season.

Despite every odd (not having tickets, not having the right schedule, a possibility of rain ruining the opportunity), he got to behold her. In person.

A perfectly happy, transformative, life-affirming moment which he describes:

The parade lasted 4 minutes, she was on a super tacky float waving, and all I could feel was that my dreams were made of the flowers around the wheels of her carriage, of the songs that liven up my days, and of her impossible wigs.

I probably would have brought God into all this unlikely and much-appreciated (understatement) moment, but Alejandro doesn’t think that way. About the coincidences that conspired to let him see Dolly with his very own eyes, he wrote:

I've learned that life doesn't owe us anything to anyone. No power greater than myself owed me the right way to make things work out for me on this trip. No one is checking my balance and deciding whether I see Dolly or not. I've made a lot of peace with that. That day, the fruit of a lot of effort on my part, on the part of my parents, my family, my friends...I was able to muster the strength, the courage, and above all, the money to be in the right place at the perfect time.

As a manifestation-denier, I really admired that explanation too.

Like most people who bring in a higher power, I do so when it’s convenient. Right place right time? Answer to prayer. Not so much when the capriciousness of life falls out of my favor.

And that’s when all I want to hear is, “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why.”

But Alejandro touches on something that I think gets lost between manifestation candles and prayer hotlines: self-determination. I’m not talking about pulling yourself up from your bootstraps; I’m talking about those moments in life when you need magic so badly that you are determined to make it no matter what. And if it doesn’t come in the form you wanted, you find another form.

For example:

Years ago I was traveling in Brazil, and I got mugged, machete-point, broad-daylight, in an empty area. It was not ideal, and sort of put a damper in an otherwise magnificent and healing trip during which I was totally spoiled by beauty.

I still had another week to go, so I needed reassurance from Brazil, which was on track to becoming my favorite place in the world up to that little snafu.

That night, I wanted to just stay at my AirBnb in safety with a homemade caipirinha and the backyard cat. But I knew what I needed: magic.

So, out I went into town to find it. I passed by sleepy side streets, empty restaurants, stray cats, apathetic teenagers. My stomach sunk. Where was my redemption? Where was the magic?

Alejandro’s right: Life didn’t owe me anything. Not redemption nor magic. Plenty of people get mugged and don’t get to have a happy ending. I knew that, but I was also so determined.

And with that determination, I happened upon an enormous street party overflowing with samba dancers of all shapes and sizes, darling older women who mothered me in my distress, kind kids who offered me dance step tutorials, and the most defiantly joyful music I’ve ever heard.

I wrote about this story in my last book. During the week of publication when I was on lots of podcasts repeatedly answering my most dreaded question, “How are you so vulnerable with your writing?”

But my soulful, fascinating, exceptionally curious friend Jonathan Fields asked me a much better question on his podcast (one of my favorites):

What if you hadn’t found the street party?

It was a startlingly good question. What if I had just kept wandering through half-dead streets until I gave up to go to bed? What would have happened if I hadn’t had that life-affirming moment to mythologize and make meaning of the mugging?

Thank god an answer sprung to mind:

“I would have found something else.”

And I really believe that. Whether it had been a ladybug that landed on my pinky finger, a hibiscus reminding me of persistent beauty, or a song on my playlist that hit the right emotional note, I would have made meaning of it. I would have gotten there.

And that speaks to a life full of practice: Things don’t always go my way. What am I going to do with that?

Just like Alejandro’s magic Dolly moment speaks to a life of cultivating supportive relationships, practicing bravery, and being determined to make things happen for himself.

Looking for magic is a way that humans have always dealt with the less savory parts of life, but the rough textures of life on earth make it easy to doubt our own selves when it comes to the wonders we experience.

Was that real? Did that mean anything? Did I make it all up? Did this Instagram illustrator I randomly follow make all these New York magical moments up?

A lot of the time, I’m there too.

But what I tell myself is what I would tell the commenters who get nervous about their gullibility or the world’s reliability or what might happen if they put their trust in goodness:

If it means anything to you, magic will happen. You either make it happen through determination, or you experience it the more receptive you are to it. We don’t know where it comes from and we never will. But we do know how to respond, either with a That was weird, or a Wow I really did that.

Or, my favorite, forever refrain: Hey, thanks! to an unknown source.

MY LAST RETREATS EVER!!!!!!!!!

I’m hosting my two final final retreats (or, for a VERY long time), and they’re happening SOON so you gotta start planning!!! Sign up now or forever hold your peace!!

RETREAT: YOUR SACRED STORY
May 2-4, 2025 in Boone, North Carolina

I’m coming back to Art of Living Retreat Center in the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains to teach a weekend workshop on telling YOUR story. I’ll focus on writing stories from lived experience and memory, with optional art prompts if you’d rather draw it out. I’m also here to give you aaaaalllll the practical tips for getting published once you’ve put your life into words!

Getting There: I fly into Charlotte Airport and take the Hickory Hop Bus which is super easy and goes straight to the retreat center!
REGISTER HERE!

BUILDING CREATIVE MUSCLE
June 6-8, 2025 in Rhinebeck, New York

I’ll be at Omega Institute (for the first time!) teaching a brand-new workshop all about “getting in shape for a creative life.” Think of it as going to the Creativity Gym and getting a bootcamp workout! If you’re completely out of creative-shape or would like guidance creating a sustainable “personal training” plan for your work (this is just the BEGINNING of the metaphor, by the way :), you are so welcome to join us here! It will be messy, creative fun in a peaceful town at a stunning time of year.

Getting There: Easy peasy from NYC! Take the Amtrak from Moynihan Station to Rhinecliff, and from there is a 15-ish-minute taxi to Omega.
REGISTER HERE!

Come be in our group photo!!