The urge to help others is very much a part of being human. There are so many ways to serve others. Maybe you help people as part of your job, in your family or social groups, or by volunteering time or donating money. Maybe you have reached out to someone who seemed down and out.

All of those acts are wonderful and beautiful and important. But, sadly, as Anne Lamott knows, there’s a real limit to how much help you can give. Here’s another piece of wisdom from her recent book Almost Everything:

“Not one single person in history has gotten an alcoholic sober. (Maybe you’ll be the first. But—and I say this with love—I doubt it.) If it is someone else’s problem, you probably don’t have the solution.”

This idea is certainly very close to her heart, as she comes back to it later in the book, delving into it with more specificity—heartrending specificity. As it turns out, Lamott did know alcoholics whom she tried to help. She reached out, she cared, she kept trying, she didn’t lose hope. But she could only do so much. It did not matter how close she was to the person, by blood or spiritual kinship. It did not matter how much she cared. In the end, all love and friendship and suggestions and urgent recommendations cannot move a mountain, unless the mountain moves itself.

This does not mean we should stop trying to help others. But Lamott turns the idea upside down by noting that her need to help others is actually a personal issue that she struggles with. Helping others can make one feel important. It’s a form of perfectionism. It’s a way of proving your worth, to yourself and others. In that respect, it can be counterproductive; no one wants “help” from someone who’s self-righteous, pushy, or otherwise overbearing.

It’s difficult to know when to try to help someone and when to back off. It’s difficult to know which acts are truly helpful, and which just get in the way. But let’s not give up. Let’s keep trying to figure these things out. And remember: sometimes the smallest acts help the most.

Is there someone in your life who seems to need help?

If you are a writer, you are probably familiar with Anne Lamott, as she is a hero among writers.

If you are not familiar with Anne Lamott, let me introduce her to you. She has a gift for homing in on the nuances of spirituality, anxiety, love, and other topics of great pertinence to our interior selves.

Among writers, she is renowned for authoring a beautiful nonfictional book called Bird by Bird. I read Bird by Bird years and years ago, and it helped me greatly as a young writer. In large part, the book is about seeing more clearly the inaccurate things we writers tell ourselves when we are feeling frustrated and vulnerable. It’s about the writing process, and how to think and go about the writing process in such a way that one does not destroy oneself or abandon the attempt. It’s about how to be gentle with oneself when one is trying to do something very, very hard.

But Lamott doesn’t just write about writing; if you’re not a writer, she has books to offer you, as well. She is a good author to read during hard times. She lifts the reader up; she understands what you’re going through. She doesn’t say too much. She seems to listen. She says just enough. She gives you space to think.

I know two wonderful mothers of very young children. Babies are great . . . but mothering babies is exhausting work. This past December, having noticed a new Lamott book on the bookstore shelf, I knew this was the right gift for each of them.

And then, having given away those two copies, and crossed over from December into January, I realized that it was the right gift for me, too. To me, from me. I checked it out from the library and devoured it: cozy beside her imaginary fire.

This recently published gem is called Almost Everything: Notes on Hope. In the following passage, Lamott references the title, illuminating its significance:

“Some days there seems to be little reason for hope, in our families, cities, and world. Well, except for almost everything. The seasons change, a bone mends, Santa Rosa rebuilds after the fire.”

Hope is the thing we need upon reading the headlines.

Hope is the thing we need in January.

Where do you seek and find hope?

I am interested to know about your dreams. Tell me about your dreams. Did you dream last night? Can you recall a long, harrowing sequence of events? Or just a feeling you retained upon waking? Did you dream of specific people? People you see in your current life? People you knew in childhood? Have you had any particularly powerful dreams that you remembered for years afterward, that seemed to guide you, or terrify you, or watch over you?

Please tell me about your dreams.

No, no, no—stop there! I did not mean that I wanted a blow-by-blow report. Your dreams are not that interesting. Do you take offense? I am sorry. Well, then, how about this? To return the favor, I will not share a blow-by-blow report of my own dreams, either. Fair? Fair.

However, I do still want to know about your dreams. Do you dream most nights? Do you dream only rarely? Have you never once experienced a dream? Do you know you are dreaming when you dream?

I never know that I am dreaming. I have always had very vivid dreams. On certain medications, they get even more vivid. I have had dreams that were so steeped in meaning that they felt like thunderclaps, missives, mandates. Have you? I would like to share what I mean . . . so can we amend our deal? Please? A blow-by-blow report is only okay if it is meaningful, and if that meaning is explained. Deal? Deal. Now, here is what I mean:

When I was in the final stages of finishing my novel, and was nervous about how it would finally turn out, and whether I could get it right—this was a few years ago—I had a dream. In the dream, I was at a place that has great meaning for me: the capitol square in Madison, Wisconsin. For me, this place represents peace and stability. I could hear a beautiful symphony playing, and I knew I had written it. I had written it by typing words on the computer, and the result was a symphony, and it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. In the dream, I listened to the music, and I was proud, and joyously happy, but also sad, because no one else could hear it, or wanted to hear it. When I awoke, I could no longer hear the music and did not know what it sounded like. But the loss of the music was bearable, because I suddenly remembered that I had something else: a nearly finished novel manuscript.

Some time later, when I was contemplating seeking an agent for the novel and starting a blog, I had another dream. In the dream, I was a dancer/stripper, auditioning for a part. I performed on the stage, dancing to the music before an audience, slowing taking clothes off. The removal of clothes was, I knew, the same thing as publishing my writing. I desperately wanted to remove all my clothes, but I somehow could not manage to take off the last layer. But I danced my heart out, and afterward, despite not taking off my sports bra and little skirt, I found out that I got the part. I was ecstatic, but also mortified. How could I bear to finally take my clothes off, when it came time to perform for real? I walked out into the audience, and my college roommate was there, having watched my audition. I was terrified about what she might say. I was shocked when she started telling me about something in her own life. It was then that I realized that she, and almost everyone I knew, did not care that much about any decision I made about my own life—as long as it did not affect them—and my worries that everyone would judge me were unwarranted.

Each of these dreams taught me something about myself that I had not known before. Each of them also guided me toward the future. I do not necessarily believe that this can be attributed to some sort of woo-woo mysticism, but rather to the workings of the unconscious mind. The unconscious mind often has access to knowledge that the conscious mind does not.

So anyway, few days ago, I had another such dream. In the dream, I knew I should do something, and I knew I should do it alone. It’s nothing bad or illegal or harmful, but it would require a certain outlay of money and time.

Should I do it?

Around noon on Tuesday, having nothing better to do, the inquisitive one drove to the little skating rink in the town square and parked in the garage. After gathering up the hockey skates in the back seat, the inquisitive one walked to the rink.

But the skating rink, the inquisitive one saw, was packed with people! Some were racing one another: a challenging endeavor, considering the short straightaways and tight corners. Some were jumping, spinning, and performing graceful arm movements, also a challenge in the small amount of space available. Some were guiding and teaching small children, who were having trouble keeping their skates upright. And others were skating backwards, with their butts and arms sticking out.

“Why are there so many people on the ice, at this time on a weekday?” the inquisitive one couldn’t help but exclaim. “And how talented they all are. I wonder who they are!”

A nearby woman, who looked to be of retirement age, smiled at the inquisitive one. Then she said, “These are all furloughed federal government employees. They started coming here weeks ago. The government has been shut down for so long that they have gotten quite good at skating! Oh, and come back in a couple hours, if you’d like to see a professional-level hockey game. That’s why I’m here—to get a good seat for that.”

“Wow!” replied the inquisitive one. “Thanks for telling me about this! Perhaps I will join you, in a bit.”

Too intimidated to put on the hockey skates and join the crowd, the inquisitive one strolled into the library. In that great hall, which was usually fairly empty, people were everywhere! And yet a deep silence reigned. Most of the patrons were reading or writing. There were not enough wooden chairs and tables for everyone, but people, it seemed, had brought in their own camping chairs, beanbag chairs, and cushions. There were long lines at the information and checkout desks—especially at the information desk. This line wrapped halfway around the ground floor. Despite this, the people standing in the line did not seem upset; they were all engrossed in physical and e- books. The aisles were as crowded as Walmart on a Sunday afternoon; and yet there were so few books on the shelves that it looked like a post-hurricane looting had occurred.

“Why are there so many people here, at this time on a weekday?” the inquisitive one couldn’t help but whisper. “And they all look so engrossed in their studies. I wonder who they are!”

A nearby man, who looked to be of retirement age, smiled at the inquisitive one. Then he whispered, “These are all furloughed federal government employees. They started coming here weeks ago. The government has been shut down for so long that they have learned quite a lot! Would you like to attend a lecture by one of them, on Ancient Rome? That’s why I’m here. It starts in a couple hours, but we will want to reserve our seats, as there is sure to be a standing-room-only crowd. The lecturer has become one of the world’s foremost experts in that era.”

“Wow!” replied the inquisitive one. “Thanks for telling me about this! Perhaps I will join you, in a bit.”

There being so few books on the shelves, there was little point in the inquisitive one hanging around to browse. Turning and walking toward the door, the inquisitive one glanced at the message boards on the wall. These were plastered over with beautifully designed placards announcing other events happening that day: and it seemed that every conceivable type of artistic and scholarly and athletic endeavor was represented. And then, glancing out of the big, front-facing windows, which were suddenly rumbling, the inquisitive one saw a fleet of helicopters. And the inquisitive one wondered whether the president was aboard one of them.

Then instantly, in a fit of passion, the inquisitive one ran out into the chilly air and shouted something up at the helicopters, at top volume.

But what exactly the inquisitive one said must remain a mystery, because, at that moment, a band burst into the opening strains of a loud, soul-thumping, perfectly in-tune, hauntingly sweet, and beautifully patriotic song.

I would like to discuss with you a modern problem, one that has the potential to strain relationships, upset family members, destroy old friendships, prevent new friendships, and restrict opportunities of all kinds. All this, you say? Yes, the potential for all this, I say. What is this potentially destructive modern problem? you ask. Let me explain through a story, I explain:

I had gone on a few dates with a sweet, athletic, intelligent, family-oriented, and career-minded man. Wishing to communicate something important to him, I made the regrettable—for more than one reason—decision to do so through text messaging. I am a woman of the modern era; that’s my excuse. Well, and I may also be a rotten and thoughtless person. In any case, he called me the next day.

For twenty excruciating minutes, he beat around the bush. He wanted to talk about anything and everything, except for the content of my text. Meanwhile I, trying to go with the flow, did not intervene, but rather answered his questions briefly and without emotion (see: rotten and thoughtless person, above). Finally, he said, “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’re in the mood to talk tonight.”

“Um,” I blurted out, “don’t you want to talk about my text?!”

(By this point, you’ve probably guessed where this story is going. . . .)

“What text?” he said.

He had not received the text! Caught off guard, I proceeded to completely bungle an oral explanation of what I had written, communicating in the most uncomprehensible English my convoluted point of view; and things ended badly.

In addition to having experienced outbound texting failures, I have also been on the non-receiving end of things. In the past year, I have failed to receive text messages from my mother, my psychotherapist, and my housemate. That last was an especially interesting case, since it was a group text, and the other recipient got it just fine.

Having felt frustrated by this problem for months, I finally found the time to scamper off to the Internet. There, I discovered that many others are having this issue. And then I discovered that my phone service provider offers a text messaging app that can be installed on multiple devices (in my case, phone and laptop) and that, people claimed, solved the problem for them.

The setup of these apps went uncommonly smoothly. And now—whoa!—I can text from my laptop, not just my phone. This is an exciting development, as it means I don’t have to interrupt the flow of my work at the keyboard if I want to shoot off a quick text, or read an incoming text. Moreover, if my phone breaks or goes missing, I can still access my text messages.

Something else interesting occurred when I installed the apps. The missing text from my housemate appeared, in proper sequence, on my laptop’s app! . . . though it is still missing on my phone’s app. Such a mystery!

How many friendships around the world have been damaged, or prevented from flowering, due to missed texts? How many business opportunities have fallen through? How many mothers have sighed, thinking their children were remiss in sending love, when actually they were not? What countless words would Charles Dickens pen about this tragedy, were he alive today?

Have you ever missed an important text? Have you ever sent one that never made it out of the ether and onto the intended recipient’s phone?