I've been through this deal before, I'm embarrassed to say, so I knew what to do. I pulled over, stopped my car, hit the flashers, grabbed a pen and notebook, and marched over to the offending driver. I copied down his license plate number and approached the window.

"Give me your license and registration," I barked at the double-chinned, pot-bellied man who wordlessly handed the documents over. His eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open, perhaps in surprise at the commanding voice coming out of blonde, mini-skirted me.

Then he recovered. "You drove in front of me!" he protested, his eyes flashing. The teacher in me came out: "You drove into me! There's no excuse for that! " Then the wanna-be-attorney in me came out: "This accident was your fault. Your insurance will have to pay."

Although he hit me, I have a feeling he was wondering what hit him as I walked away, climbed back into my little, two-door Honda Civic hatch-back, slammed the door, and sped off.

As I drove away, thoughts coursed through my mind. I thought: 1. I'm glad it's his fault, so he'll have to pay for it. 2. Maybe when I get the check from my insurance, I can get my mechanic to fix it for less, and I can make some money off of this. 3. I'm glad I now have an excuse for being late to work! (It had been 9:20 a.m. when I had rounded that corner.)

It didn't occur to me to be thankful for anything until I emailed my sister on the west coast. As luck would have it, she was talking to our mother on the phone at the same time. Two messages flashed back to me in rapid succession with the same sentiment: Are you all right?

"Oh. …yeah." I had forgotten to be glad I wasn't hurt. In the traditional Jewish prayers recited each morning, there is a litany of blessings, each of which praises God for a different gift:

Praised are you God for making me free. 
For providing for all my needs. 
Who gives strength to the weary. 
Who removes sleep from my eyelids.

I don't often recite them in the mornings; I am too busy, jolting my body awake with a dose of caffeine, showering, then blow-drying my hair, applying mascara, eyeliner, blush and lipstick, gathering my things, and then turning back to grab an almost-forgotten lunch as I charge out the door.

And then my morning routine continues: The cursing of traffic, the resentment of the foul New England weather, and the panic of "will I get it all done today?" as I rush to work.

How different my day might be—my life even—were I to simply stop for a moment each morning and appreciate life's gifts.

Today I took the car to the insurance analyst. With outrage I pointed out the damage on the rear driver side: "He just drove into me," I said indignantly. "I don't know what he was thinking."

But as I watched the analyst take pictures of the smushed up rear of my car, I realized that had I not in a split-second seen the truck veering towards me, pressed on the horn, and stepped on the gas, that truck would have gone into the front of the car. He would have done more than just damage my car. He would have damaged me.

I returned home to find my subscription of Creative Nonfiction waiting for me. I read of a woman who sustained brain damage after a BMW drove into her Chevrolet. She wrote about her difficulty performing the ordinary tasks of cooking, and of the life she had before the accident.

Reading about the activities she enjoyed but in which she could not longer participate, I realized that I am indeed, as the morning liturgy encourages me to acknowledge…free.

Free to go folk-dancing, free to return to graduate school should I desire, free to sling a back-pack over my shoulder and finally see Europe, and free also to do the mundane, such as dash down to the market tonight to buy a piece of salmon for my evening's meal. As I hurried in the twilight, that time of day when the sunlight mingles with the dark, I breathed a prayer traditionally recited at dawn, trusting that my late timing would suffice:

Modeh Ani Lifanecha: How grateful I am before You, for restoring my soul.