When I was a kid, my mother used to take us to a specialty shoe store. We’d sign in at the tall giraffe stand, like putting our name on a list at a restaurant. As one of the salesmen became available, he’d call us and we’d be fitted for shoes, old-school style.

This week when I needed dress shoes, I headed to a large discount shoe warehouse. Finding nothing of value in my hard-to-fit width (someone once told me I could start cars with my feet, like in The Flintstones), I finally looked up a specialty retail shop. I surrendered to the fact that if I wanted to be comfortable as well as fashionable, I’d have to pay the price.

Stepping into the store was almost like stepping back in time. Three men waited on customers the old fashioned way, disappearing into the back room to find the requested style in the right size—God willing. I found a simple slingback in bone, and while a young man searched the back room stacks, I discovered a snazzier option on the sale rack.

Simon (I later learned his name) took pride in his work. He had an easy, yet attentive manner, and he knew the finer points of various shoemaking companies. He said I could get away with a half-size smaller in one brand whose shoes were built like a house. I enjoyed sitting across from him, perched on his shoe-fitting stool, surrounded by half-opened boxes. Being tended at a retail store had become a rare experience over the years, and I appreciated the one-on-one service.

Next to me sat a woman with long, dark hair who waited as her husband negotiated a simpler process with another salesman. When Simon disappeared again to find black pumps in my size, I turned to speak with her. No more cheap shoes, I said. You know what I mean? She agreed, and we shared solidarity in the value of self-care.

The pumps turned out to be the best dress shoes I’d tried on in years. I also bought the slingbacks, knowing they’d last much longer than their lesser-quality counterparts.

It wasn’t until I was driving home that I remembered an assignment from my Awakened Wealth program. We were to peruse our environment for what we were tolerating—a faulty showerhead? A closet door off its track? A trunk full of junk or a pile of unopened mail? It could be a relationship that had become taxing or a job that no longer inspired our creativity. Whatever we were tolerating, we were asked to fix, change or address in a loving way. This would release energy tied up in old, worn-out habits, letting go of attachments to circulate a better quality of life.

Whether it’s finer footwear, a more organized desktop, or a deeper alignment with our life’s work, renewed energy pours into the space created by releasing what we’re tolerating for a refreshed—and welcomed—upgrade. Any ideas what yours might be?

It’s often said that what we’re seeking is seeking us. I seek connection. In the gift moments of life, this connection is simple, clear, heartfelt and true.

Last Thursday at the self-checkout area of the supermarket, I realized I’d forgotten my discount fob. In an aisle with a live person at the register, I would have given my phone number. But I didn’t know how to negotiate this simple transaction with a machine. I stepped over to the cashier in charge of self-service who, at that moment, was ringing up a few items for a fellow worker heading home at the end of a shift. She noticed me and turned to ask how she could help. When our eyes met, we both smiled as if recognizing an old friend. I asked my question, and she gave me the answer. When she finished helping her co-worker, she came over to be sure the instructions had worked. Indeed they had. Minutes later, when I had a coupon snafu, we enjoyed a good laugh—just two souls from different cultures sharing the recognition of a joyful life.

Later, I walked the Hudson River trail at a nearby park. A man with two fishing poles secured in the bank of the river stood quietly by. He interested me—an older fellow with long gray hair, moustache, cap—Native American looking, I thought. I was drawn to his energy, thought about striking up a conversation, thought that might seem weird, and decided to do it anyway. Catch anything? I called out as I walked by. Oh yes, he replied, yesterday I got a carp this big! He held out his hands to more than two feet in length. Wow, I said, assuming by his enthusiasm that was a good catch. I’m going for striped bass. He added, It’s a good river. I agreed, and then I pointed to a small tree nearby. The leaves are finally budding! His eyes got big. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been focused on the river, and I on the trees. When he looked back at me, he smiled warmly. His eyes were now lit up. Connection.

A friend with young children once shared this story with me. A few families who’d been shopping later at night found themselves piling kids and groceries into their cars at the same time. As my friend’s wife called to him to get in the car, he hesitated. He’d just seen another dad give a good push to his empty cart in a direct line with the shopping cart return corral. In a moment of synchronicity, a small group of dads watched as the cart sailed across the parking lot, landing in graceful precision between the “goalposts.” Arms and cheers went up in this shared bonding of parking lot athleticism.

What a gift when we are present to this moment to find that someone else is awake, too. What is hidden is revealed, what is sought is found, and we are connected.

The other night I took the bravest action I’ve ever taken—and as my life has proven, I’m no stranger to courage. But this was the one thing I hadn’t wanted to face. The box. The one I assumed I’d open only at the end of this lifetime.

Did it contain something traumatic? Not at all. Inside were cards, letters and email print outs from those who’d written to thank me, celebrate me, or share their love for me. Notes I’d only given a cursory, Oh how sweet of him/her before tossing aside. Yet something within me was wise enough to toss them into one place.

Then, why so daunting? It was evidence. It required me to actually receive back the love I’d given out, and I dreaded it. I knew it would hurt. I’d have to open my real heart—not the one I claimed to open, but the one ever deeper.

But it was time. I turned off my phone, poured a glass of water, and took the oversized shoebox into the living room. I opened it and pulled out the first card. 1989. My dear friend James with whom I’d worked the streets of Brooklyn for a political party had been diagnosed with AIDS. Before he passed, he wrote to say how much he loved me and how I was to remember that I possess the inner strength to surpass any obstacle that comes my way. Your love for life, he wrote, your love for music will pull you through it all. I sat for several minutes to fully absorb his words. Yes, I am that strength.

Next, a note from someone who’d heard me give a talk in Toronto, Ontario in 2016. She wrote, It is a joy to listen to you share the pure love of God. Again, it took several minutes to alter my self-perception.

One card looked spookily similar to the cover of The Abundance Project, a book by Derek Rydall whose life-changing course in Awakened Wealth Mastery I’m currently studying. Another thank you note signed with love from Larry had no last name, and I’m still trying to remember. But it contained a quote from my favorite inspirational teacher, Harold Klemp: It is truly the rare person adventuresome enough to explore his inner domain.

I read slowly. I had to stop at five cards as my heart was overflowing. I have perhaps hundreds—from former students (and their parents) whom I taught and directed, from colleagues and co-workers, friends and family, co-stars and audience members.

Now I don’t have a choice. I cannot turn back. I must relinquish my mind’s belief that my life has been a failure, that I’m not loved, and that I’ve done nothing valuable for God. I can no longer feed others while starving myself out.

As I read one a day, I’ll keep learning to receive. I’m finally willing to take responsibility for what I’ve circulated for decades. And I am among the wealthiest of people.

If I had a bucket list, I would have crossed off a top item this week—being in the presence of Dr. Edith Eva Eger. The 90-year-old holocaust survivor, clinical psychologist, and extraordinary soul is the author of The Choice: Embrace the Possible—a book Desmond Tutu called A gift to humanity. One of those rare and eternal stories that leaves you forever changed. I know that was true for me.

Dr. Eger spoke to students at The Horace Mann School with a message to take any situation and look for the gift. Auschwitz was about discovery, she said. I had to find some way to flow and stay in the situation. I created a part in me that no Nazi could ever touch. I bring you that spirit today, to find a gift in everything; and, I’m telling you about Auschwitz as an opportunity. It was an opportunity for me to discover my inner resources, the strength that I have within me.

At their age, Dr. Eger had been named to the Hungarian Olympic team as a dancer and gymnast, then expelled for being a Jew. Shortly thereafter, she and her family were taken by cattle car to the concentration camp. Her mother gave young Edith a gift on their journey to the unknown, one that ultimately shaped her survival: we don’t know where we’re going or what is going to happen to us, but no one can take away from you what you put in your mind.

Edith often put in her mind the memory of Eric, the man she’d planned to marry, telling her she had beautiful eyes and beautiful hands. And when Dr. Mengele came around to identify the talented ones (the other girls pushed her forward), Edith closed her eyes and imagined Tchaikovsky’s Romeo & Juliet Overture. With full focus, she danced for the man who’d sent her parents to the gas chamber—a choice that saved her life and the lives of others.

How do you cope with the unexpected and unanticipated? Dr. Eger asked the students. The biggest concentration camp is in your own mind—and you can find the key in your pocket. Then she shared this story.

One day, in yet another line to determine her fate, Edith reached the guard who was to tattoo her arm. He pushed her away saying he didn’t want to waste ink on her. About to be separated from her sister, Edith got creative. You see survivors have to be quick decision makers, she said. On the way to the gas chamber, I saw my sister in one part, and I was in another part, so I looked at the guard and I began to do cartwheels—and my sister ended up with me.

As Dr. Eger travels the world to speak with students, she brings generosity, humor and grace. She models self-love and self-care. She is free and selflessly giving. My book is about you, she says. I came here to celebrate you.

On Friday night, my friend Kitty Callahan was honored as Person of the Year by the Yonkers Police Department. At the 102nd Annual Installation of Officers & Awards Dinner, this recognition typically granted to local politicians or business people was given to a social worker for the very first time.

The evening began with presentations for notable or heroic acts in the line of duty, including the efforts of a detective who had spent four years solving a cold case, and the bravery of several officers who’d been engaged in a full 15-minute shoot out. A young cop who’d been shot in the face during that violent incident was sworn in as a detective by the Mayor—much to her surprise. I felt privileged to witness the sense of community and family within the culture of those who serve in this way.

When the President of the PBA took the podium to give the final award of the evening to Kitty, he held no notes in his hand, nor could he share stories of personal triumph or heroism. A man of significant physical stature, Detective Olson’s humble presence and simple, heartfelt words honored the moment and the woman strong enough to tend those who face dangerous situations. When Kitty began as the department’s Employee Assistance Professional, he said, she was warned that no one was going to talk to her or trust her. Yet since that time, literally hundreds of officers have sought her counsel. Detective Olson offered his sincere gratitude for Kitty’s gift to the Yonkers Police force, for helping keep officers sane in their often-chaotic world.

Kitty received citations from the Mayor, the City Council President and the New York State Assembly for her support of the department through the toughest of times. A beautiful plaque honored her years of commitment and dedication. One line engraved therein most caught my attention, resonating with the words of her presenter: We thank you for all the help you have given to the members of the Yonkers Police Department throughout the years. Your compassion is unparalleled.

There is a level of listening to the grit and grace of life that very few people can do. This kind of deep listening creates a sacred space through knowing that every experience, no matter how painful, has the potential to lift us to a higher place. Yet only as that experience is fully heard and honored can its true gift unfold. Kitty gained the respect and trust of an entire police force without ever having been a cop herself because she is such a listener.

If you are so fortunate as to have someone in your life who truly hears and supports you, you may want to take an opportunity to thank that person. Perhaps they are your Person of the Year.

On Friday night, I attended a one-woman show with a playwright friend. We didn’t know we were walking into immersive theater, which neither of us favor, but the actress won us over with talent, kindness and ease. “Every Brilliant Thing” by Duncan MacMillan and Jonny Donahoe explores the subject of suicide with grace and comedic vulnerability—initially through the eyes of a child who makes a list of every brilliant thing in life to present to her mentally ill mother. Starting with what a seven-year-old would treasure like ice cream and water fights, the list grows as the character grows up to joys such as the smell of old books and hairdressers who listen to what you want. After the show, audience members were encouraged to add to a master list posted on the wall. I added, astronomy binoculars.

The play reminded me of a gift moment from college that I experienced with an extraordinary young man I’d met my freshman year. John had just returned from a semester in Nairobi the fall that I started school. He was the son of dairy farmers, and he grew up in the North Country region of New York State. Something about his sincerity, gentleness, connection to nature, and deep commitment to the truth of the moment started me on a quest. Then also, there was his humor.

John once instigated a water balloon fight with me around the dorm. On a spring afternoon, armed with colorful water bombs, we ran at top speed down hallways, bursting through outside exits to re-enter by other doorways, hiding and finding each other in full-out strategic water warfare. The crowning moment came when I, complete with weapon ready to fire, ran out the back door of the north wing, certain that I’d just seen John run out seconds before. I was so sure I’d seen him that when I stepped out of the building, I paused to look for which way he’d turned. At that exact moment, splat! — the latex landed atop my head and burst, thoroughly drenching my body. I looked up in complete disbelief. There was John, laughing so hard over my reaction to his unexpected attack that he nearly fell off the second floor balcony.

That water balloon moment always lights up with joy, freshness, vitality, and the gift of exploding laughter. Everything about John’s presence in my college days inspired me to be true to every part of myself. He goes on my list of brilliant souls who steered me toward the unmasked—presence over pretense, authenticity over authoring—a lesson that unfolds continually as its fearless vulnerability settles into my heart.

A number of years ago when I worked at a school on 86th Street and Park Avenue, a homeless man by the name of Billy frequented the block. He used to stand in front of the bank holding doors for customers. A thin, older, African American gentleman, Billy had grey in his hair and several teeth missing. But he always smiled and offered a genuine open door—paper cup in his hand, just in case.

I’d gotten to know Billy in the afternoons walking from work back to the Lexington Avenue subway station. I never gave him money, but always stopped to chat. We’d share a few moments in easy conversation, connecting in a happy, friendly way. We both maintained an uplifting demeanor though we each had our troubles. I enjoyed my time with him immensely.

Once, after a particularly difficult day at work, Billy saw me coming and asked why I was looking so blue. I told him, it was just one of those days, but he could see that I was down. Then he did something that still brings tears to my eyes when I remember it today. He peered into his cup, shook the change around a bit, looked up with utter sincerity and asked, Can I buy you a Coke?

Billy’s gesture of generosity melted my heart and shifted my world.

I thought of him this week when reading the story of a woman who commuted to work through a busy section of the city, always seeing a certain homeless man with bright eyes on the off-ramp of an expressway. If the light was red, she’d spend a couple of minutes talking with this upbeat soul, giving him change and exchanging human kindness. One day, when she got laid off from her job, she completely fell apart. How would she, as a single mother of four, manage until she could find work? On the drive home, she didn’t want to face anyone. She hoped the light at the ramp turned green on her approach. But it didn’t. Instead, the man had a big smile, strolled over to her car window and said, Today I will give you a dollar.

What is it about true generosity, especially when means are low, that means so much? Does a pattern that usually lingers in the background of our awareness emerge into visibility when we give or receive without agenda?

Last weekend, I walked past a young, homeless woman sitting on the sidewalk holding a sign that read Lost everything but my smile and my hope. I saw the sign before I met her eyes, and when I looked up, she was smiling at me with raised eyebrows that commented, Well, here I am! In receiving the gift of that wry smile, offered in cheerfulness and courage when her life had emptied, I knew the spirit of true generosity.

Image: Julie Parker – Heart and Soul matters.

New York City is a place where strangers dance to the rhythm of gift-moments-in-motion. A brief exchange—the world shifts—and we continue on our way, all the better for having crossed paths.

In midtown for an early meeting at Pret A Manger, I decided to buy a lunch salad before leaving for my next appointment. As I stood in front of boxes neatly lined up for perusal, the lunch crowd began filing in. A man in a bit of a hurry chose something from the case and turned his attention to a basket of chips directly in front of me at the edge of the refrigerated section. Where are the…? he murmured to himself, picking up one small bag after another and putting it back. I noticed that he rejected the flavored varieties. Shortly after, he gave up and headed to the cashier.

Since I had observed his intention, I put my salad search on hold to walk the length of the display, peering into other metal baskets for plain potato chips. They must be here somewhere, I thought as I took note of BBQ, Chipotle and Vinegar. Then, at the far end of the far basket, I caught sight of Sea Salt in a bag with a simple blue stripe. I picked up the bag and headed to the counter where I thought I saw the man among the payees. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

As I edged up behind him, I asked, Were you looking for plain chips? He answered without turning around, Yes. Then, in one simple motion, he pivoted, took the bag from my hand while looking me in the eyes, and said happily, Thank you. You’re the best. He spoke it like we were old friends.

Later that day, I found myself feeling so uplifted. Someone thought I was the best! Wow. Maybe I am, I laughed to myself, re-living that moment through the image of his light-filled, green eyes.

Meanwhile, on the Upper West Side, a friend of mine experienced her own unexpected gift encounter. She writes: I was wearing a new jacket that I bought in Seattle. It’s a sort of deep aqua color with light aqua trim. Near 70th Street, I passed a middle-school field trip. One girl turn to me and said, “I like your jacket. The color is pretty.” I thanked her, and then the girl next to her said, “I like the scarf.” Another round of thanks, and a boy chimed in, “Actually, the whole look works.” Made me smile all day!

What are the calculated odds of being complimented by one middle-schooler, let alone three? We have such power to affect one another in the simplest gestures. Perhaps this is one graceful way we learn together, moment by moment, the effortless choreography of the loving heart.

Last spring, I joined a Meetup group for women in Westchester County, where I live. I was drawn to the hikes they offered and the down-to-earth vibe on their site.

I signed up for a walk organized at Teatown Lake Preservation—a nature preserve with which I’m very familiar. After we circled the lake, several walkers wanted to keep hiking. So I found myself, on my first Meetup excursion ever, leading the group on a hike up the Twin Lakes trail. Though I hadn’t been on that trail in years, I grew up hiking in the Adirondack Mountains. I know how to follow trail markers. Many of the women seemed impressed by my leading skills, though I kept insisting I’m just following markers.

The next weekend, four of us gathered at another nature sanctuary for a longer trek through the woods. Of the four, Sally and I were seasoned hikers. Elaine and Amy wondered at our leading skills in a landscape of crisscrossing paths. Sally and I maintained that leading by following was easy once you knew a few key points.

Up the trail a ways, Elaine mentioned that she’d like to learn to lead hikes someday. In that moment, I happily stepped aside, following behind to guide her in looking up ahead for the colored diamonds posted on trees, watching for turns in the trail, or to stopping at a juncture to make sure the group stayed together. Elaine approached the task with humility and openness. This impressed me because in my many years of teaching, I’d noticed that these exact qualities made a student more teachable.

Elaine soon gained the necessary knowledge and experience and found her rhythm. She paused on the trail, turning back to us with a smile of understanding. Sally answered Elaine’s smile with it’s like connecting the dots or, more accurately, connecting the diamonds.

A spiritual principle of connecting diamonds states that events are like diamonds, with invisible lines connecting them as a part of a much larger plan. Learning to see and follow these lines gives us a smoother, more joyful ride through daily life.

Following trail markers is like seeking the next moment of love and light. Life goes on ahead to mark our path with diamonds—bright inner lights. We need only look for the next diamond, the next opportunity to give and receive love. If we don’t see it, we can walk up ahead a little to check. Where there’s a juncture, we can pause to exercise more care in choosing our path.

On the last leg of the hike, Amy cheerfully bounded forward from the back of line saying she’d like to learn, too. Elaine, I called out, now you can teach Amy! Off they went, while Sally and I smiled and chatted, following their lead in a moment of sweet, simple happiness on the morning trail.

My downstairs neighbor, whom I’ll call Kathy, moved in last fall. She didn’t seem entirely happy with the move and, for whatever reason, she turned down an invitation for a potluck supper with the rest of us on the property. I must admit she scared me a bit.

Shortly after the new year, Kathy began practicing guitar and playing later into the evening than I would prefer. I hesitated to speak up; in fact, my imagination took over to picture the worst possible outcome if I did. She’d get defensive, the conversation would turn sour, and tension would hang in the air until one of us moved out. [My theater background has me well trained.]

One night, though Kathy was playing quietly, I couldn’t fall asleep. I didn’t have her number, so I emailed to ask if we could chat the next day. The next afternoon while warming up my car in the parking lot, Kathy drove in. Here was my moment. I’d planned what to say. Since I play guitar and love to sing with other musicians, I thought I’d invite her to play together—and at the same time make a request that she stop practicing by 10pm. This would take finesse.

Kathy got out of her car with a wary look when I called her name and asked if she’d gotten my e-mail. You play guitar, I said as an opener. Yes, she answered somewhat guardedly, you can hear? I commented that the walls are thin, and she mentioned being able to hear my cat howling at times. She said she didn’t mind since she has a loud-meowing cat named Tally, but I apologized nonetheless.

I shared with Kathy how her playing was inspiring me to pick up my mostly sedentary guitar. She asked about my musical background, and in the next several minutes, a veritable miracle opened up. It turned out we both had spent time in the worlds of theater and music. We’d worked with some of the same directors and actors. When she mentioned a particular theater company, I showed her a tax document in the mail I’d just picked up—from that theater.

Kathy went on to talk about open mic nights in the area, how she wanted to get back to playing out and was looking for someone to sing back-up vocals. I said I’d be happy to harmonize and suggested we get together on the weekend.

As the conversation waned, Kathy asked for my cat’s name. Belle, I said. Belle and Tally, she replied. That sounds like a duo. We laughed, and I gave her a high five. As I walked back to my car, I promised to check in on Sunday afternoon.

What great relief I felt as I drove to the grocery store! Once again, the mind had played its tricks with fear. Yet once again, a gift moment opened like a flower to sunlight—in this case, bringing literal harmony.