I’m going through it right now. Last night one of our three family dogs was hit and killed by a car in front of my mother’s house. The dogs became, more or less, my mother’s surrogate children after her human children grew up and moved out and my father ran with a midlife crisis and left her. The one that was killed had bonded with my mother far more than the others.

She is extremely shocked. I loved the dog, but my true sadness currently results from having to watch my mother bear another tragedy after everything she has been through in her life. In the midst of all of this, I have to sincerely applaud the driver of the vehicle, which feels wrong, but it’s not.

I’ll start by stating it was not his fault. The dog ran after a deer into the road at night. In an effort not to hit the deer with his car, he changed direction, not seeing the dog, resulting in its death. He could have very easily continued on his way, but he did something that I hope I never forget.

In my eyes, he did the right thing. The driver pulled over, carefully wrapped our dog in a blanket he got from his car to preserve its dignity, and carried it up to my mother’s front door.

He was visibly shaking and very upset. He informed my mother of what happened and she broke down immediately. He comforted her the best a stranger could and waited with her while my sister rushed to her house. He left his information and offered assistance in any way he could.

Yes, he is the man who hit and killed our dog accidentally. What he really did was spare my mother, and potentially my sister, from coming across a horrible scene themselves while searching for the dog. He had so many choices that were far easier to make than what he chose. He did the right thing and for that, thank you, Stranger. You restored my faith in humanity.

“WHAT KIND OF BIRD is this?” the text from my wildlife protector friend had asked. I had to look closely at the photo. It was an owl (猫头鹰), found dragged and dropped on someone’s backyard. I figured that she was about two weeks from being old enough to fly.

Cleaned and warmed, the tiny owl survived. Together we planned a “soft release”. “The idea was that as she gained the ability to fly, we would let the young owl wander off rather naturally, on her own schedule, into the very suitable woodland behind our home.”

Her care came to us for what we thought would be a few weeks at most. We called her Alfie. But the recovery took longer than expected. When she should have been able to fly, Alfie could only walk on the ground. Winter was in the air, making easy food much less available, and she had never learned to hunt. I would not risk letting her loose and having her starve. When summer was again at its fullest, I left the door open. Alfie disappeared one day. A week later, my wife texted me: “Guess who’s back.” After that, Alfie centered her territory around our backyard, and before long, we started seeing another owl.

Alfie became the owl she was born to be when she left our protection for the risks and rewards of free agency. She and her mate raised three baby birds that first year, building new links in the great chain that has gone unbroken — so far — for millions of owl generations.

Alfie lives in relationship, and our surprising capacity to relate to one another expanded my perspective on her life and mine. Birds and humans have not had a common ancestor for more than 300 million years, yet Alfie always enjoyed a little head scratch that we enjoyed giving. Our nervous systems still relate, allowing us to share such pleasures. People for thousands of years lived in relationship with nature and with their communities. If there is one lesson from Alfie, it is that to live in relationship is how we might heal.

My love of antiques(古董)has been going on for years. So the other day when I drove past an old house in the country and saw a homemade sign that read, “ANTIQUES FOR SALE”, I stopped. A young man was in charge of the sale. “We’re cleaning out Grandpa’s house before we sell the farm,” he said. “Getting rid of all this old stuff (东西).”

The “old stuff” was wonderful: several old chairs with cane seats, a walnut drop-leaf table, two weathered wooden stepladders, and an old hooked carpet in excellent condition. I was attracted but then—hurrah!— in the corner of an upstairs bedroom, I found a small bookcase filled with old books.

Something about the sight of old books pulls me like a magnet (磁铁), and old books of poetry are especially attractive. Around the turn of the last century, the best gift one could give a friend was a book of poetry by Shelley or Shakespeare, Bryant or Burns. Sure enough, there was a lovely, old, published-in-London book with gold lettering on a deep-blue cover: “The Poetical Works of Robert Burns”. The illustrations were quaint (古色古香的) and charming. One of the poems was, of course, ‘Auld Lang Syne”. I would have paid much more, but the price was $1.

Back home, I put my purchase in the basket beside my favorite chair. I like to scatter a few old books of poetry around the house—one or two beside my chair, one on the kitchen counter to scan while I wait for something to cook, and one on my bedside table.

Old books of poetry are full of wisdom—the easy-to-digest kind. Some are like self-help books, but their advice is condensed—no wasted wordage. Some are praises to dear friends; some describe the beauty in life with words that are beautiful to read. Joseph Roux, a 19th-century French poet, once said, “Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.”

I love this lovely old book. It was cherished (珍爱) by someone long ago; now it’s my turn to read and enjoy it.