Month: May 2026

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An Accidental Meeting, A Hand Held

A few months ago, when the world was cold and the snow came often, I left for work a little earlier than usual.

The roads had already been plowed, but I knew better than to assume they were clear. That kind of winter morning holds a particular deception. The pavement looks clean, almost dry, while a thin layer of ice waits invisibly beneath.

I was mostly alone on the road.

The sun was out, bright and generous, reflecting across the white snow under a clear blue sky. Everything looked fresh. New. There was a crispness in the air that matched the sharp cold of the morning, and I found myself enjoying the quiet beauty of it all.

As I approached a slight curve leading to a stop sign, I heard something simple and unmistakable inside me.

Stop here.

I was still more than a car length away from the intersection. There was no one behind me. No reason, really, to pause that early. But I did. I brought the car to a stop and sat there, curious, waiting without knowing why.

A moment later, I saw a car coming from the left.

It appeared around the curve moving a little too fast for the conditions. That caught my attention. I watched.

What followed unfolded as if time slowed down.

The car began to slide. Back and forth, a loss of traction that the driver could not quite correct. It went up onto the curb, dropped back down, and came to a sudden stop directly in front of me.

Had I been at the stop sign, it would have been a very different moment. But I was not.

There was no car behind me. No pressure. Just a calm body and space to witness what had happened.

Two young men sat in an older car. I could see the driver’s body tense, his breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. They spoke quickly to one another. Then he jumped out of the car, ran to the front, checking for damage. He circled to the back, then looked toward me.

His whole body spoke before his words did.
He was shaken.

He raised his hands, his face tight with worry, and mouthed, I am so sorry. Then he turned, looking again at the curb he had hit, back at his car, and back at me. The distress was real, immediate.

I rolled down my window and motioned him over.

He came quickly, apologizing again, his voice unsteady. He was close to crying. His friend had gotten out as well, moving toward the front of the car, checking the wheels.

“Give me your hand,” I said. 
He did. He held on tightly.

“I lost control of the car,” he said. “I was so scared. Oh my God… what if I had hit you?”

I smiled, not to dismiss him, but to meet him where he was. “Take a breath,” I said. “You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, still holding my hand, the cold air moving through the open window. I began to breathe with him, quietly, without instruction beyond presence.

I could feel his body begin to settle.

Then his eyes opened wide again. “I didn’t realize I was going that fast. I hit ice.” “Yes,” I said gently. “That happens. These roads can be tricky. They look clear, and they’re not.”

There was no need to make him wrong. The moment had already taught him everything it needed to.


“This is something you learn from experience,” I continued. “I learned it myself the same way you did. And now you’ve learned it.”

He took a deeper breath.

“It’s okay not to know,” I said. “And then to learn something new. You’re okay.” Something in him softened. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

“You would have figured it out,” I told him. “But here’s what you can do now.”

I pointed just beyond the intersection. “Pull into that first driveway. Park. Get out with your friend and take a good look at the car. Maybe drive it slowly in the parking lot, see how it feels. And sit there for a few minutes. Don’t leave until you feel calm again. Then you can continue, carefully, now that you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. I will.”
Again, “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re okay,” I said.

He let go of my hand, returned to his car, spoke to his friend, and slowly turned into the driveway on the right. I continued on my way to work.

At the next red light, I found myself sitting in the same sunlight, watching it reflect off the snow, feeling something quiet and steady inside.

Gratitude.

Not for avoiding an accident, though that was certainly there. But for the exchange itself.

He had come toward me, even in his fear, to make sure I was alright. I had reached toward him, meeting his distress without judgment. There was a simple, mutual care in that moment. Nothing elevated. Nothing complicated.

Just two humans, pausing long enough to recognize one another.

What steadied him was not only the breath, or the calming of his body. It was the absence of blame. The normalization that this happens. That we learn. That we adjust.

There was nothing to defend against, nothing to hide from. And in that, something repaired itself almost immediately.

We met, briefly, in a place where no one was wrong.

There are countless moments like this in a day, though most are far less dramatic. Small openings where we might pause. Where we might soften. Where we might reach out a hand, or receive one.

Instead, we often move past one another, quickly, efficiently, as if nothing meaningful lives in those in-between spaces.

But it does.

Those small exchanges carry weight. They linger. They shape how we meet the next moment, and the next person.

Even now, when I come to that same stop sign, I sometimes think of him. I imagine him driving more carefully, yes. But more than that, I imagine him moving through his life with the same instinct he showed that morning. To turn toward, rather than away. To care, even when shaken. To hold a hand and breathe together.

Not that he must pay it forward.

Simply because, for a brief moment on a cold winter morning, those actions revealed his nature. And it was lovely.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

HeartWarming

 News

Research continues to show that simple moments of awareness, noticing the body, the breath, the environment, can reduce stress and increase a sense of wellbeing. Nothing complex required. Just a quiet return to what is already happening, and the body often responds with a natural sense of ease. Practice throughout ordinary days allows this natural way of being to emerge when you experience a higher load of stress or an unexpected or overwhelming encounter.

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Every Brilliant Thing I Noticed

Some days don’t announce themselves as anything more than what they are.

My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary last weekend with a trip to New York City to see Every Brilliant Thing with Daniel Radcliffe.

On the way up, settling into the lower level of the train, I noticed the view. Train tracks, trash, and graffiti on concrete walls. I realized I’d prefer the upper car with a view of the landscape and the brilliant blue sky. This prompted a move at the same time the train gained its own momentum. Swaying down the aisle, in sync with the speeding train, we dropped into a row where I claimed the window seat.

Only to notice that the glass was blurred and no view was available.

Without distraction, our hushed conversation was relaxed. Along the way, I noticed the woman eating her lunch, two people quietly speaking behind me, a woman reading How Proust Can Change Your Life, and the way the light moved across the seats.

There was nothing remarkable about that journey. And yet, it was not nothing.

Arriving in the city, the wind caught my ears in that intense, almost surprising way it does between buildings. Cold, immediate, alive. I didn’t rush past it. I noticed it. And again, blocks later, when the cold turned sharp within my ears.

New York City is not my favorite place. To me, it’s loud, fast, dirty, and a bit abrasive to my system.

I wasn’t concerned with navigating the terrain as I followed my husband’s lead. Leaving me relaxed and free to notice the architecture, traffic, souvenirs, and food trucks lining our path. I saw the street artists, cautious venders of knockoff purses, bike couriers with their food orders, and the unhoused hoping for assistance.

The city felt different this time. Not better or worse, just available, there for the noticing.

We spent a few relaxed moments in Times Square. Out of the way of the crowds and costumed characters angling for a photo opportunity and a donation.

I looked up at the billboards, Broadway show marquees, news feeds, and advertisements. Color, movement, creativity, pleasure, and ambition stacked on top of itself.

We spoke about shows we’ve seen, memories we’ve shared, and new stage stories that looked interesting.

Without the need to plan or make a decision, I enjoyed taking it in as part of the landscape I was moving through. There was a kind of ease in not needing the moment to become anything else. And a sigh of pleasure when dropping into the perfect table in a quiet, warm restaurant. 



A break from stimulation. A nourishment of the body. An opportunity for more enjoyable conversation. 



Followed by a relaxed stroll to the theatre and quiet time waiting in the short line for entry. Settling inside the theater, my sense of delight and awareness broadened and deepened. Without effort, I was inhabiting a new experience.

Every Brilliant Thing is simple in its structure and expansive in its reach.

A single performer on a small stage telling the story of his life with a mother with depression. A list revealed.

Ordinary things that, somehow, hold the weight of living and perhaps, hopefully, invite some realization of the good of it all. Participation from some of the audience and a fair amount of improv all around.

In the center of the back row, I had a birds eye view of the orchestration that was unfolding.
I watched Daniel enthusiastically greet people as they claimed their seats. Offering them an opportunity for participation in this unique show. Handing over an index card with their lines, sometimes elaborating upon what was asked of them.

In real time, I noticed collaboration with the actor, director, and audience members as this specific performance was being set up … for whatever was to unfold.

Not so different from my experience on the swaying train or the bustling city, I was meeting something alive, relational, and in motion.


I could feel the moment when the room was set.

The people were seated. Index cards had landed. The actor and director gazed out from the stage, gave a synchronized nod, shook hands, and the show continued.

It didn’t feel like the beginning, although officially it was. It felt more like a continuation of the day I had already been inside of.

I was enraptured from the first utterance through the last bow. The story itself was brilliant. True. Deep. Joyful. Sorrowful. Real.

And there was room for the entire audience to meet this real experience easily, without effort. At times with laughter at the wit, improv, and generally funny ways humans move through life. In moments that landed through the entire body, like a soft recognition passing through. A slight tightening. A warmth. A pause. A tear. A deep, resettling breath.

The return to laughter, delight, and spontaneous appreciation of the way an audience member showed up. Put on the spot. With Daniel Radcliffe. Imperfectly perfect in that moment.

At times, I felt the stillness of the crowd as if we had been paused in flight. A shared breath held. The joy of movement returning with a well timed laugh. I sensed a current moving through the group, the shared acknowledgment of the depths and heights of human experience, and a recognition of ourselves in a single story.

The truth of it moving through the room in different ways for different people. Without any need to interpret or analyze, it landed. Touched the room. And took flight once again.

There is something about being in a space where life is being reflected back, not as an idea, but as a lived texture.

Small things. Ice cream. A song. A moment of connection. A heartbreak. An unexpected action. The kinds of things that don’t ask for your attention, and yet hold everything.

Throughout this full day, I wasn’t thinking about being present. I was just not somewhere else. And that feels important to say.

Because this rich experience didn’t come from effort. It didn’t come from reminding myself to stay in the moment. It was more like the absence of leaving.

After the show, the city received me again. The same streets. The same movement. And still, that quiet thread of being inside of it continued.

The train ride home was softer. A short nap offered a small kindness to the body after the motion and the movement of the day.

There is a way of living where the meaningful moments are the obvious ones. The show. The peak. The thing you went for.

And there is another way that has been quietly revealing itself.

Where the walking there matters. Where the cold air matters. Where the looking up at a billboard for a show you may never see matters. Where the way your body sits in a chair, or breathes in a room, or softens into a moment is not separate from the experience, but the experience itself.

The events of the day may look ordinary from the outside, yet from the inside, it felt full. Not full in a way that needs to be held onto. Just full in the sense that nothing was missing from it while it was happening.

I am noticing more and more that this is less about creating a certain kind of life, and more about inhabiting the one that is already here. Not perfectly. And certainly not with effort.

To notice not only the moments that move through the day, but where I am standing as they do.

Living inside the life that is unfolding, however ordinary or brilliant it may appear on the outside.

Recognizing that, like that swaying train, crowded city, and engaged audience, life is already unmistakably alive, responsive, and coherent.

Ripe for the noticing.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

HeartWarming

 News

Studies suggest that attending live theater increases empathy and emotional connection, as audiences share a collective experience in real time. Sitting together, responding together, something subtle happens. Even a simple story, told well, can remind us of the depth, humor, and tenderness woven through ordinary life.    

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Reflections In A Venetian Window

You arrive in Venice the way you always arrive in places that have lived longer than memory can hold. 

Not just by plane or train, but by stepping into a rhythm already in motion.

The Duomo rises before you, not asking for attention, but receiving it anyway. Gold mosaics catch the light in a way that feels almost intentional, as if the building itself knows how to speak to the human longing for beauty. You stand there, looking up, letting your eyes follow stories set into stone and glass. There is devotion here, layered over centuries. Hands that built, restored, and protected. A quiet insistence that something sacred matters.

In the main square, the blue clock turns its ancient face toward you. 

Time, but not the kind you check on your phone. This one carries a story. Figures emerge, disappear, reappear. You watch, not because you need to know the hour, but because something in you recognizes continuity. The kind that outlives urgency.

The tide has pushed into the square and you step through the water at its edge. 

Shoes in hand, coolness around your ankles. People laugh, hesitate, complain, adapt. It is all happening at once. Venice does not pause for inconvenience. It absorbs it.

Later, in a narrow alley, you sit outside and eat what you are certain is the best pizza of your life. The kind that requires no commentary. Simple, perfect, immediate. The table is small. The air is close. Voices move around you in languages you do not need to understand.

You wander.

The streets curve and narrow, then open unexpectedly. Every turn offers something. A small shop filled with glass. A doorway framed in flowers. A bridge where someone pauses just long enough to take a photograph and then disappears into the flow again.

You notice the people.

Waiters moving quickly, carrying plates with practiced ease. Some warm, some indifferent, and some clearly tired. Shopkeepers who greet you with a smile or barely look up. 

There is no uniform mood here. Just life, in all its expressions. 

You can feel the weight of history beneath it, not as something romanticized, but as something lived. A place that has known beauty and strain, wealth and hardship, continuity and change.

And then, without planning it, you stop.
A window.

At first, it is simply a display. White masks, dozens of them, layered and suspended in different shapes and expressions. Some delicate. Some exaggerated. Some almost unsettling. The glass reflects the street behind you, so for a moment, everything overlaps. Faces without bodies. Movement behind stillness.

You step closer.

Masks have always belonged here. Not as decoration, but as function.


In another time, they offered anonymity. Freedom. Protection.

A way to move through society without being fully seen. To speak, to act, or to participate without consequence. They held power. They allowed expression that might otherwise be constrained. They served a purpose.

You stand there, looking at them, and for a brief moment, you see your own reflection layered into the display.

And something in you recognizes something. Not as a dramatic revelation that demands attention. Just a quiet noticing of the masks you have worn.

Not the literal kind, but the ones that form over time. The ways you learned to move through the world. To be accepted. To stay safe. To navigate expectations. To belong, or at least to avoid exclusion.

Some of them were subtle. A tone of voice. A way of agreeing. A way of not saying something. Some of them were more defined. Roles you stepped into. Identities that shaped how others met you, and how you met yourself.

None of them were random. They formed in response to something real. A moment, a relationship, or an environment. Each one carried intelligence. Each one served you.

You can see that now.

Standing in front of that window, in a city that has made an art form out of masks, you are not inclined to judge them. Not yours. Not anyone’s.

There is a kind of beauty in them. Although, you notice that you are no longer reaching for them. Nor have you forced them away. Not because you have decided they are wrong. Simply because, in this moment, they are not needed.

You stand there, unmasked, and realize nothing is missing.

No performance is required. No adjustment is necessary. No role to step into. Just presence.

The street continues behind you. People pass. Conversations unfold. Life moves without interruption. The masks remain in the window, as they should. Honored for what they have been. Available for those who still need them.

So you move on without fanfare. Walking, just as you are now, through a city that has seen everything.

And in this moment, that is more than enough.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

HeartWarming

 News

Research in psychology continues to highlight that authenticity supports well-being, with studies showing people who align their actions with their inner experience report greater life satisfaction, stronger relationships, and lower stress. Small moments of honest awareness can gently reshape how you move through your day. Letting your ‘masks’ fall naturally and gradually without judgement or needing to work too hard.