The Compassion of Magical Thinking

In the 54th issue of The Believer back in June 2008, Zadie Smith shared the transcript of a lecture she’d delivered at Columbia University that March. Among other awesome things, it touches on the synchronicities that pop up as she writes her novels, which she calls middle-of-the-novel magical thinking, “when there is nothing in the world except your book … Strange things happen in it. Time collapses.”

It’s those inexplicable coincidences a writer only notices because you’re living with the words, people, events, sights, and smells of the world you’ve chosen to inhabit for months or years at a time. Smith writes:

While writing my second novel, I took part in a literary auction. -People bid, their money goes to charity, and the winners are put in novels as characters. My winner was called John Baguley. Not a common English surname—I’d never heard it before. In my novel, John Baguley’s an autograph man who goes to an auction and pays to have his name in a novel. At the time, I thought that was a cute idea. A little while after I wrote the scene, my heating broke down. It was mid-winter, freezing. I called in a plumber. The plumber wanted to see exactly what make of Victorian boiler I had. There was an ancient piece of foam wrapped round the thing, covering the label. He peeled it off. Underneath was written: John Baguley and Sons. Same spelling.

[Insert mind-blown emoji here to bring us back to present times.]

My genre is creative nonfiction. But every day, sometimes multiple times, strange things happen. I’ve started documenting these accidents of fate, immersion, or maybe just noticing.

I’ll share just one (for now).

My partner has started a tradition of surprising us with a local overnight stay to ring in the new year. First, we were at The Fairmont. This past December, she took us to Great Wolf Lodge. Admittedly, it’s not my favorite place—I prefer organic veggie things over Hungry As a Wolf—but our daughter had a blast at what amounts to an indoor amusement park and resort.

As we drove home, we stopped for gas in San Leandro. I don’t have many associations with this town, maybe just a couple, but one of those is that in April 2009, my brother David felt unstable enough that he was taken by ambulance to the emergency room of a mental institution there, John George Psychiatric Hospital.

So, as we pulled off the highway, that was my first thought. At that very moment, I saw a road sign: John George Psychiatric Hospital.

We drove by so I could snap a few photos.

To add to the research for my book, and on the off chance that this worked, I contacted John George to see if I could access David’s record from that day. It was a long shot—not every medical facility keeps records for over 10 years. They’re only legally required to keep them for seven.

But within a week after submitting the necessary paperwork of a signed authorization form, David’s death certificate, the letters of administration of his estate, and appropriate ID, I received his 40-page intake form—dated April 27, the same date, 14 years later, that a wellness check would be called in as David sat lifeless on a Davis park bench.

I can’t say these coincidences and epiphanies are easy. Perhaps they’re signs that I’ll eventually learn the full meaning of.

David wrote about his five hours at John George in a Medium article:

In the company of these people, it struck me that I didn’t belong there. Who I was and who I was becoming felt like an offering of the greatest love I can imagine. My mind became clear and my body felt relaxed and light. I caught myself smiling in a mirror on the ceiling and knew exactly what I needed to do. At that moment, I took a vow to dedicate my life to asking people to write their concept of compassion in a notebook. I would let any outcomes be as they may. On my way back home, I called a friend and asked him if I could come live with him in Davis. He needed to ask his housemates for permission. They agreed and I moved to Davis in May. On June 3rd, 2009, I began asking people to write about compassion.

As the signs continue, as they register, point, and expand, I believe David’s smiling.