Columns of cars are closing in on the highway, and I decide to turn off to get there faster. The music channel with pop songs that I'm humming along to is playing – and all my thoughts are running. Without me even thinking about it. One thought takes the next, and another: shopping, weekend plans, work tasks, relationships.

It's all in my head, it's buzzing, and I'm not even aware of it. I let myself drift and have seemingly forgotten all about my meditation practice. I'm an autumn leaf in the wind, I'm a fly in a bottle. My space of consciousness is limited, like a bell jar, my horizon is short. I'm only my thoughts, my driving, the noise in my head, my direction.

From the exit ramp I turn left over the bridge and stop at a red light. An oncoming car pulls up on my left before it also stops at a red light. The music is interrupted by commercials and my gaze glances into the car next to me as I impatiently wait for the light to turn green.

Suddenly my attention is awakened. Right next to me, in the back seat of that car, sits a little boy in his seat. Autumn jacket, new front teeth. School bag next to him.

He looks at me. I look at him.

The car he is sitting in is red.

It's red for me.

Everything stands still.

The boy's gaze is open and holds mine. My gaze is open. I'm not holding anything, but I can't help but look straight into him. He's silent, I can see his lips. I don't know if there's noise inside his car too, but suddenly there's complete silence inside mine.

I don't know if my radio is off now, because I experience nothing but the contact with the boy. The turned face, the gaze. Neither of us blinks. Neither of us looks away in embarrassment in this completely intense contact.

The moment expands, and it is as if we are connected as one, in the brief moment our consciousnesses meet. It is not just the boy and I who are one. Everything merges together, like a connectedness that includes my car, his car, the entire highway network, the entire country, all of humanity. We are one.

Then it turns yellow.

And it turns green in front of me.

My breath is deep, and the moment my car starts moving forward through the intersection, I turn my face back. I leave the boy. We leave each other. I immediately feel a sadness. I feel a longing. I feel the contact with my heart.

I feel the contact with my own inner child with new front teeth and open gaze. The child who keeps me awake and aware. The immediate child who dares to stand in open and loving contact without fear. The child who is not supposed to achieve anything. The child who is also in me. The child who does not blink. The child who is quiet.

The traffic is still heavy, and our cars are driving in different directions. I don't hear the music, and my body is soft in the seat. I look in the rearview mirror. I only see the silhouette of the meeting, but I feel the contact inside. I look in the rearview mirror, where I am reflected in my own gaze.