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.”
“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.