Yesterday I finished listening to the audio version of Pam Muñoz Ryan’s juvenile fiction novel Echo. My friend Sydnie recommended it (“The audiobook is awesome because it includes the music relevant to each character,” she said), and it’s nothing short of glorious, full of magic and heart. In short, it’s about an enchanted harmonica that mysteriously comes into the the lives of several different characters not only to change their lives for the better, but also to bring them together across time and space. Brimming with hope, the book encourages us that, “Your fate is not yet sealed. Even in the darkest night, a star will shine, a bell will chime, a path will be revealed.”

I’ve been thinking about this today, the way that all is never lost, the way that help always shows up when we most need it. I’ve also been thinking about how so often help doesn’t announce itself. In Echo, each of the main characters is intrigued by the enchanted harmonica but doesn’t realize what power it would bring into their life. Likewise, six years ago when I first arrived at my therapist’s office there wasn’t a sign on her door that said, “Your life is about to be turned upside down.” And yet it was.

I suppose there are two ways of viewing your life. One, as if it’s not enchanted. Two, as if it is. Seeing your life as not enchanted, each day is the same, random. A beautiful person or object comes into your life, and you think, Isn’t that nice? At best, you occasionally use the word coincidence. Seeing your life as enchanted, however, each day is unique, full of possibility and wonder. You think, Nothing or no one comes to me by accident. You use words like synchronicity, fate, destiny, and meant to be.

Of course, I advocate the enchanted life. Not that I can prove this is the way the universe works, but I can certainly prove that believing it works this way is more fun. Last night I rearranged some artwork on my walls and in the process realized that one of my paintings was originally framed this very week in 1968, twelve and a half years before I was even born. Several years ago I lived in a hundred year old house that was an absolute godsend for me, a quiet home after I’d left one of turbulence, a space space where I could heal my broken heart. I completely believe that like the harmonica in Echo, The Big House came to me because, at least for a time, I needed it. Maybe because we needed each other. My point being that how do I know my painting from 1968 hasn’t come to me for the same reason? A drawing of a weeping willow, it continues to remind me to cry, to flow with life rather than stiffen against it, and to remain rooted.

Along these lines, my framed print of Diogenes reminds me to continuously search for truth, Diogenes being famous for his quest to find “one honest man.” And whereas I could go on and on about the search for truth and honesty, here’s what I’ve come to believe, what I think this drawing from 1946 came to teach me. You can spend the rest of your life looking for one honest man, or you can spend the rest of your life trying to be one. That’s the deal. Diogenes wasn’t looking for someone else. He was looking for himself.

He was it.

Years ago my swing dancing friend Robin sent me a framed poster of Lindy Hop legend Frankie Manning that’s signed by several Lindy Hop “gods and goddesses.” Along with it, she included a note reminding me how important I am, both as a person and a member of the dance community. For me, the poster and the note have become one. Regardless of which I look at, I inevitably feel better. Because I think, If even for a moment, I made a difference. If even for a moment, someone noticed. This is the power that one kind act, one thoughtful note can have. Its effect can last for years, a lifetime.

Talk about magic. Talk about enchanting.