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In the scheme of things, against the news of the Libyan’s dictator’s death, the heartrending collective cri de coeur of the Occupy movement, the now-systemic meanness in Washington, the banalities of the endless presidential race, it probably doesn't add up to very much.   But in my heart, I shall never forget it, because it was spontaneous, genuine, and socially uncharacteristic.

I was taking my regular morning walk along the lagoons and canyons that bring so much peace to life here (in Del Mar, Calif.), enjoying the companionship, as always, of my frisky dalmatian.   The sea breeze exhilarated and the mountains to the east filled the eye with the good sense of one’s own smallness.   People who jog by are usually friendly and “hellos” are exchanged under the veil of good-natured anonymity.  Cars go by on the relatively narrow, winding road that comprises a good portion of our walking routine; some of the drivers wave courteously while others look a bit annoyed by a man and his dog intruding upon their motor sovereignty.

On the swing home, I realized that a dark SUV was pulling up slowly and carefully by my side.  Would the driver ask for directions?  What did he have to say, if anything?  I retreated from my ruminations of family, budget, book ideas, and sermon concepts.   I mildly resented the incursion of this stranger though did not find it unwelcome or in any way threatening.

His passenger side window came down noiselessly and the man, fiftyish, amiable, smiled at me:  “Just want to say that that’s a pretty dog!”  It was spoken without a trace of guile and delivered in cheerful good spirits.

“Thank you!” I answered, completely pleased by the moment.  “Yes, he is something special, this one.”

“Dalmatians are, well, interesting,” the gentleman offered.  “I have two dogs now and once had a dalmatian.  They are loyal but a bit kinetic, eh?”

There was no reason for this exchange but for a desire on the man’s part to be friendly and sociable.   Such a pleasure, I thought, to come across someone without the standard buffer of a cellular phone, a cord, earphones, or just the insidious suspicion with which we regard one another in this hard-wired world of cyber insularity and political spitefulness.

He introduced himself by name, Carl, and clarified that he was, in fact, a neighbor by a street or two over.  I extended my hand into his car and said, “And I’m Ben.  You know what, it is so nice that you stopped just to say hello and introduce yourself.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” said my new friend.  “The world is a mean place and I think people should just find ways to reach each other.”

“You’re a nice man, Carl.  I can see it in your eyes.”

“You are too, Ben.  It will be good to see you next time.”

It was one moment in favor of the elusive peace.

Ben Kamin is one of America's best known rabbis, a multicultural spiritualist, NYT Op-ed contributor and author of seven books, including his latest, "NOTHING LIKE SUNSHINE: A Story in the Aftermath of the MLK Assassination."  He is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist. 

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