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.