My friend Sue shared a story of meeting European guests who were staying at a friends’ house. Their joy, laughter and service filled her with inspiration. Three women, traveling together, raised the bar on the gift a guest can bring forth when staying in someone else’s home.

Sue explained: When I stayed overnight at my friends’ house, I came after the ladies from Europe were already asleep. By morning when I awoke, I heard laughter in the kitchen. I went downstairs, and they each introduced themselves along with which country they came from—Germany, Italy, Greece—though they knew one another from owning homes in Greece. The three worked as a team, looking at recipes on the kitchen table, deciding what to make for breakfast. When they chose “pancakes,” or what we would call crepes, one tended the skillet, another the ingredients, while the third read the recipe. And as we all gathered at the table, they handed around tea or coffee, making sure everyone had everything they needed. I couldn’t’ get over the fact that they were the guests!

After breakfast, I went downstairs to have a bodywork session with the wife of the couple who owns the house. Upon our return, the kitchen looked pristine and the house was quiet. A note written in German sat on the kitchen table, asking us to call when we were through. We assumed they’d taken a walk. Not at all. Out the window, we spotted one of them in front yard, then one in the side yard, and one in back—all raking leaves! Not only this, but they were using a special broad, triangular oil cloth brought from Germany as a gift to their hosts—a sack with handles that allows you to rake the leaves into the bag and carry them away.

Later that week, I had also been invited to this same friends’ house to meet the European guests. They’d baked both a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte (Black Forest cake, gluten free) and a Galaktoboureko (Greek custard pie). I may never have tasted finer desserts. Yet it was the musical laughter and joy that struck me as unusual in my world. While we sat at the table, they passed around a video of their arrival night. The husband of the couple, a guitar player, sat in his PJs on the piano bench, playing lively music on guitar. The three European women entered the house, dropped their bags and, without even removing their coats, began dancing.

Sometimes a gift moment continues for a duration of time as an open invitation to a new landscape. How wonderful to accept that invitation and enter an uplifted world filled with joy, light and laughter. Sue and I noticed how these European travelers fed all those around them in every way. By being themselves and being together, the gift poured through. Opa!

Yesterday, my friend Emily and I drove into the city together. She brought up an experience that reminded her of the gift moments I’d been sharing. It was such a small thing, she said, but it had this quality of the stories you tell.

Emily was engaged in an intense performance week as the pianist for the American Ballet Theater at Lincoln Center. Choosing to save her energy to prep and perform one night, she decided to order sushi to be delivered to the stage door. She was told it would take forty-five minutes to arrive, so she went outside for air—enjoying a fresh, intermittent mist in the early evening. She bought a cup of tea, walked a couple of blocks, stopped at a store to look at clothes for her son. She returned just shy of the time limit to find an angry deliveryman awaiting her on the outdoor steps. He reprimanded her, demanding to know where were you? what happened? He’d tried to call three times, but she hadn’t felt the buzz of her phone. The man was very upset about waiting so long.

Emily described her viewpoint: For some reason, though he was quite cross, I was in a happy state. I’d technically arrived under the amount of time I was told, but I couldn’t muster up the energy for a defense. My voice trailed off in explanation.

I handed the man a five-dollar tip, and he asked me to sign for the food. Something started to shift. As I signed, I asked again if he had to wait a long time. He responded curtly, Yes! While still looking down, I spoke the words, I’m so sorry. I said it in a way I’d never apologized before, almost motherly, like when you don’t blame a child because you know he’s doing his best and just needs to be heard.

What happened next was quite remarkable. I looked up to hand back the sales slip and saw he was completely transformed. He was smiling! Literally, in the time it took me to sign my name, whatever gift came through the moment for him, he got it. As if nothing had happened, he seemed happy, serene, a very nice gentleman. I’ve never seen anything resolve that fast. I thanked him, and we parted ways.

I asked Emily what intention she held in the moment of signing her name that allowed for such a quick shift. I never wavered from the open and joyous heart, she answered. If I had an intention, it was to bring a greater sense of love to the moment. It wasn’t about deciding he needed something; that’s not my purpose. For some reason, what came through opened up an inclusive space that we could share together—and it transformed the experience instantaneously.

Emily and I continued to explore how time and space can change completely in a gift moment, allowing a wave to reach all participants. The only requirement? That someone be open.

I walked into the Diagnostic Imaging Center confident that I had all the necessary paperwork for the required test. I approached the counter and signed in, noticing three office workers on phones with another line ringing.

While on momentary hold, “Judy” took my paperwork and insurance card, scanned the card into the system and handed me documents to sign. We chatted as she multi-tasked, and I enjoyed her spunky sense of humor.

I don’t think you need authorization, she said, but I’ll ask. I know the rules changed on October 1st for this particular company. Judy consulted her co-workers as well as a manager who entered from the back offices just at that moment. Oh, yes, they all agreed. This company now requires an authorization.

She turned to me, confiding, it’s my third day here, so I had to ask. I didn’t think you needed one, but let’s see what we can do. Can you wait a bit, and I’ll contact Dave who handles our authorizations? If we’re delayed, you can take my appointment, as I have a sonogram scheduled right after you.

Judy returned to her call. I sat in the lobby with a large binder on my lap reading a script I was directing at a nearby school. Images of how to stage the opening scenes came to me, and I made notes to record the actors’ movements. Thirty minutes later, I was about to check in when I overheard Judy on the phone with Dave, talking in a low tone. Apparently, he hadn’t received the fax she’d forwarded of my imaging order, so the call hadn’t even been placed yet to my insurance company.

I waited a while longer, then walked over to let Judy know I needed to leave for work soon. She asked what I did and perked up when I told her I was directing a middle school musical. Her nephew had been part of an improv group in Chicago and recently relocated to Brooklyn. So I shared a tip on the best place to study in the city.

Judy suggested we reschedule and promised to call me later with an update. We booked another appointment and cheerfully parted ways.

The next day, I got a call from Judy. You’re never going to believe this, she said. The thought flashed across my mind that I’d been denied. You don’t need an authorization for this particular test. I laughed out loud. Of course not, I said. She’d been right in the first place, but deferred to “more experienced” colleagues. I asked how her sonogram had come out, and she filled me in. We were comrades now.

I hung up the phone knowing that life had arranged our meeting for a certain solidarity, a grace of being new at things, a connection with the theater, and a laugh. Everything in its right place for a moment more important than efficiency.

A friend and I finished lunch and walked out of the restaurant towards a bench that overlooked the Hudson River. While engaged in conversation, a woman approached carrying booklets, saying Excuse me, ladies… I turned to meet her gaze and listen. I’d like to share with you some news about the Four Horsemen. This is an article about who they are and how they affect our lives today. She held out a thin newsprint magazine with the name Watchtower that I recognized as the publication of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, a religious group that often goes door-to-door sharing Christian material. The magazine matched with the familiar vibration of her approach—a resonance of my prior experience with the members of this path.

Sure, thank you, I answered, taking the magazine from her and placing it in my bag. She continued about the word of God while I dug in my purse for a gift back to her—my response to the offering of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. I found a little yellow card in my wallet with the word HU printed on it and an list of the benefits that can be found by singing this word silently or aloud.

And I’d like to offer you something, I said, handing her the HU card. What is this? She asked, holding it warily. This is the word HU. It’s a love song to God that you can sing like this (I demonstrated by singing in a drawn out breath Huuuuuu…. pronounced like the word “hue”). It’s for recognizing all the blessings around us every day.

There was a moment of silence in which she looked at me so fiercely I wondered if she might say something harsh. But as she held my gaze, she said, It’s amazing, isn’t it? Unmasked, the light in her eyes met the light in mine with equal knowing, Yes, it is.

She smiled gently and turned to walk away. I returned to the conversation with my friend as she called out, there’s a discourse online that you can read, too. It’s in there. She’d remembered her script, all she was supposed to say.

My experience over the years with Jehovah’s Witnesses is that they love God in their own way and believe in sharing what they hold to be true. I’ve had wonderful conversations with several members of their church about love and gratitude for all things divine.

Perhaps it was my grandfather’s staunch atheism that taught me to respect whatever each Soul I meet has decided is true. I chose to prove truth to myself through direct experience. So who am I to speak to the experience of another? The spiritual fact of beingness, of the opportunity to meet one another’s gaze and recognize common ground, is enough.

I walk a path along the Hudson River several times a week. I enjoy watching the sunlight sparkle on the water and the expanse of clouds configuring infinite shape variations across a wide-open sky. Sailboats often dot the landscape, and more breeds of dogs get walked on this path than anywhere else I know.

One afternoon when feeling a bit heavy-hearted, I headed to the river for some exercise and positive ions. Pulling into a parking space, I spotted a rabbit feasting on the grass nearby. I wondered how close I could get without the bunny bolting. Rabbits are known for their fear, so I approached silently, attempting to blend with nearby trees so as not to be noticed. I got within six feet and had the opportunity to watch little brown cheeks expand and contract as he munched quite intently. Eventually, he high-tailed it across the path and under a bush, flashing a white puffball in his wake.

I set off northbound on the trail with a little more lightness. I greeted a few other walkers and cyclists with the common courtesy shown on the path. I noticed that a smile from another human being goes a long way when I’m feeling down.

I monitored my thoughts as I walked, sorting out the ones that hurt from the ones that healed. I wanted to keep myself open for what I call “God moments,” where I become aware of divine presence, love or truth. It’s an experience outside of time and space requiring a certain inner silence and stillness to perceive.

On the return trip to the parking lot, I came out of a reverie to hear a small voice asking a question. Was he speaking to me? I wasn’t sure, since this carrot-topped boy of about 4-years-old had his hands on the handlebars of a colorful scooter and his head down as he walked. But as he got closer, he looked right at me and asked the question again. Are you going back to the __? I stopped and removed my sunglasses to meet his gaze. I saw complete openness, curiosity, and trust in his face, and the moment slowed to timelessness. Though the last two words escaped me, I’d heard going back, and answered, Yes, I’m going back to my car. The third time he spoke, I heard clearly. You’re going back to the starting line?

I smiled as the gift bypassed my mind and went straight to my heart. Yes, I smiled, the starting line. He said, We’re going all the way to the end, referring to two people approaching from behind him who I assumed were grandparents. They’d been in conversation with each other, unconcerned that their grandson was “talking to a stranger.” They returned my smile as they passed, each of us recognizing the specialness of this boy in a sacred moment—never predictable, always a blessing.

On a Tuesday afternoon, my friend Lisa and I traveled from a meeting in midtown Manhattan to her home outside of Philadelphia. She navigated while I drove my blue Honda Civic stick shift down the New Jersey Turnpike.

Off the exit and nearer to her house, we came upon a narrow, green metal bridge. Turn left here, she said, and you’ll notice that everyone drives really slowly across the bridge.

I acknowledged the 15 mph speed limit sign as I began crossing the two-lane span. About halfway across, a group of seagulls flew just overhead. One landed on the bridge between my car and the car in front of me. I slowed, but kept the car in motion, confident that this bird—like all the others I’d known in my driving career— would fly away at the last moment. But the gull chose to remain in the middle of our traffic lane.

There was a split second when I questioned the decision of my slowly rolling tires. But by then, it was too late. The next thing we heard was what sounded like the catalytic converter and then the exhaust pipe conking the bird on the head.

My friend and I were baffled and concerned as we looked behind us. In the rear view mirror, I watched the car behind me carefully steer around the still standing bird. Was he OK?

The seagull toddled across the oncoming lane and made its way to the bridge’s edge. Other than looking a bit dazed and wobbly, he seemed perfectly fine. He’d just been run over by a car, yet here he was—intact and intent—looking as if he was preparing to fly.

At that time, I’d been feeling completely run over by life, and this encounter made me wonder. What if when being knocked about I chose the simple, practical action of shaking it off and walking towards the far edge of what I could see. In the very next moment, would I experience the possibility of flight?

Days later, I sat in a friend’s recording studio and looked up to see a photo on the wall. A picture, taken from underneath the bird, of a single seagull in wide-span flight with sun-tipped wings and tail against a clear, blue sky.