2 min read
He had a car stuffed with fifteen birthday balloons and was soulfully singing along to a sacred chant when he reversed full-speed into a stranger’s brand-new SUV. What Matthias Hombauer did next — walking slowly toward the furious, shaking man and offering a hug — wasn’t a decision so much as something that moved through him unbidden. “I never say ‘brother’ to strangers,” he admits, and yet the word came out, and something in the other man settled. What unfolds from that Vienna sidewalk is a meditation on the gap between the wisdom we profess and the moment that tests whether we mean it. Hombauer — a former molecular biologist turned concert photographer turned life coach — describes a practice of writing down the document you already carry: the relentless inner commentary, ninety percent negative, that quietly shapes every encounter. Then, through forgiveness, flipping it into declarations of who you actually are. “It’s easy to say ‘I see the light in everyone’ while sitting at home,” he writes. “It’s not easy in a car accident.” The angry man, it turned out, had a ten-year-old child — the same age as Hombauer’s child — whose birthday party the balloons were for. A book gift was mailed to his address from the insurance papers, a drawing of the crash included so he’d know who sent it. A day later, the phone rang. Sometimes accidents, it seems, are less about faults and errors than about what gets opened.
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