On a run in the park this week I passed a youngish woman with a Graco stroller of belongings in black garbage bags. I couldn't see her face as she was huddled over her notebook writing intently, in that bubbly cursive script the popular girls had in junior high. She was focused. The words were flowing easily, the way they sometimes do, when the only challenge is to get them on paper as quickly as you can in case the muse vanishes like a magic genie before the final wish is fulfilled. In the glimpse of that small moment I brushed up against hopefulness and connection. I said a silent blessing that her path would be illuminated. I said a silent blessing that she would continue to write.