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.

On a cool, sunny September day while waiting for a friend to join me at the golf course, the attendant and I chatted outside the clubhouse. His smile revealed youthful mischievousness. An Italian, he reminded me of my youth—that familiar inner core of strength amidst the smell of breaded veal cutlets frying in olive oil.

Casual topics led to a deeper level when he mentioned working to stay active since his wife passed. How long ago? I inquired. Three years, he said, and the story began.

She was a strong girl. She had a gall bladder thing and when the doctor went in with the scope, he saw something he didn’t like. When they got in there, there was all kinds of cancer. We went for a second opinion, but nothing could be done. They said to take her home, get things in order. They suggested Hospice and we went there—wonderful people. She hung on for six weeks. He paused. She got so thin. That night she had her arm propped up on a pillow and she was holding onto my arm, breathing like this. He demonstrated a labored in and out with wide eyes. I asked her, “Do you want more morphine, Babe?” She nodded, and I got the nurse to give her more. The nurse told me to go home, but by the time I got there, the phone was ringing for me to come back.

How did you meet her? I heard myself ask, and his face shifted to brightly lit.

I saw her coming off the train. We were both from the Bronx—my family on 233rd, hers on 232nd. Our families knew each other, but mine didn’t have the best reputation. We were five boys, you see, and we got into all kinds of trouble. So, we had to sneak around at first. She worked on Wall Street. I used to ride the train downtown with her to spend time together. She was a knock out. And she was talking to me! I realized this was it, so I decided to go talk to her mother. I came home from work, showered, put on a nice shirt and tie, a suit jacket, and went over to her house. He mimed knocking at the door. When she answered, I introduced myself and said, “I’d like to date your daughter. I’ll bring her home whatever time you want, no questions asked. Whatever you want. Take your time and think about it.” That night I got a phone call, “My mom said yes!” That’s how it began. Best thing I ever did. She straightened me out. She was a strong girl.

My friend appeared, walking towards us from the parking lot. As we headed to the first hole, the man wishing us an enjoyable game turned into the young Italian boy dressed up to brave his future mother-in-law. From the first phone call to the last, the stoop in the Bronx to the Hospice bedside—it’s what love does.

I walk a lakeside, wooded trail several times a week. In fact, I’ve traversed this particular 1.5 mile loop in every season and at every time of day. The lake is lovely, with swans or blue heron, turtles or fish; I even saw an otter once. But this day, I struggled with inner silence. My mind raced from perceived mistakes of the past to worries about the future. I wanted to practice shifting from the worried mind into the serenity of present time—the sweet, eternal moment of Soul itself.

It was a sunny, cool spring morning with azure sky and puffy white clouds that reflected on the lake’s surface. Half an hour into my walk, I rounded a corner to see two geese sitting in the water close to shore. Their stillness surprised me, so I paused to watch and listen. That’s when I saw the reason for their soft, throaty sounds and perfect stillness. Six puffball goslings were pecking at the shore, eating just as fast as they could, sometimes swimming close to the edge just to climb up slightly farther away.

Surprised, I inhaled audibly. Now I stood completely still so the parents would know I was safe. The goslings had their full attention on food, and I had my full attention on their yellow fluffy cuteness.

After several minutes, the gander began very slowly turning to the center of the lake and moving out. The goose did the same, and the goslings gathered to re-enter the water, following mom and dad. One remained in the water close to shore, seeking snacks on the surface of the lake. By the time he looked up, his family had swum a way’s away. He paddled with the effort of his whole body to catch up with his siblings, swaying side to side as he left a wake in his path.

As they all gathered to swim to another feeding spot, I resumed my walk on the trail. May the blessings be, family, I said quietly, and I thanked them for sharing a moment of life’s journey. Just their presence had lifted me up and put me into present time.

It was closing night of a one-act play festival in the small town of South Salem. A theater company set up in the basement of an Episcopal Church mounted seven short plays about different kinds of love. Ten-year-old Mirabel [not her real name or photo] stood in the dressing room area just off stage left. As the second play performed, she stepped into her bulky, white snowsuit costume to be ready in time, for she was on next.

Mirabel struggled throughout the run with the snow jacket’s zipper. A seasoned actress who used to teach first grade (and was good with zippers) often helped her complete the task. But tonight, something subtle was about to shift.

We had to be very quiet backstage. Mirabel made a face as she struggled with the zipper, then looked at me and laughed a silent laugh. She tried again—expressing more comedic frustration. I moved ever so slightly towards her with eyebrows raised in the unspoken question, would you like some help? She shook her head no and mouthed, I want to get it myself.

That’s when I recognized what I call a God moment—an experience outside of time and space where we have the opportunity to hold and wait while divine love steps in. I stood still and went silent inside. I breathed. I held space in my heart, space for Mirabel to find her own unique way to meet her challenge. The world went into slow motion, like a feeling of suspended animation. I knew only unconditional love for the Soul in front of me and how precious she was to the Divine.

On her next attempt, the bottom of the zipper caught the track. She looked up at me, mouth open in surprise and delight. I smiled back.

Minutes later, that young actress took the stage with the confidence of a champion. Lines? Easy. Character? No problem. Zipper? Conquered.