Last week, I joined a dinner with fellow authors and speakers in Toronto. As we gathered around a long table, I had my eye on a seat at the far end, the one where the energy seemed to be humming. But in the middle of an animated conversation, I missed my moment. Someone else slid in, and I let them have it without a fuss.

I wandered to the other end of the table, half-expecting to get wedged in somewhere. Instead, someone moved over to give me space - a small act, but one that caught my attention.

It turned out to be the perfect seat.

The conversation at that end was different. Grounded. Spiritual, even. Not in a strange way, but in a way that made me lean in. I’ve become more open to that kind of thing lately. Not because I set out looking for it, but because the universe keeps nudging me in that direction.

The group of us on my end of the table started talking about morning routines, and I shared how I’ve come to love my early walks. Before the world wakes up, our usually bustling street feels like it’s holding its breath. It’s the one moment in the day that belongs entirely to me.

I mentioned that I always take the same route. It’s calculated - quiet, peaceful, efficient. I know the distance. I know how long it takes. I don’t have to think.

One of the guys smiled. “What would happen,” he asked, “if you just followed your instincts instead?”

I didn’t quite know how to respond. My instinct said no thanks—it’s o’dark o’clock and I'm barely awake. But his words lingered.

So the next morning, I decided to give it a try. I walked out the door and turned… somewhere. Wherever felt right. No map. No plan. Just me and the brisk morning air.

There’s something oddly freeing about moving without a destination. I took streets I usually overlook. I noticed houses I’ve never paid attention to. As I rounded a final corner, I saw something on the sidewalk: a piece of brown paper flapping lightly in the breeze, held in place by a pebble.

I got closer.

It was a $100 bill.

I looked around, expecting a camera crew or a prank. But the street was still fast asleep. Nothing but silence and a breeze. I picked it up - it was real. Crisp. Unexpected. And entirely unclaimed.

Later, when I got home, Janice took one look at me and the bill in my hand after explaining myself she just shook her head. “Only you,” she said. The kids were wide-eyed. I’m not sure they’ve ever seen a $100 bill up close. They immediately tried to claim it and had mentally spent it on snacks and toys before I’d even told them the story.

But this isn’t really about the money. Although if the universe is planning more early-morning deposits, I’m listening……

I treated myself to a thick slice of carrot cake from the bakery around the corner from us. It didn’t even make it home. Then I used the rest to buy some groceries and snacks for a few of the local folks I pass regularly near the subway.

So what’s the lesson here?

Well, I guess, sometimes life literally leaves a hundred bucks in your path. But more often than not, it leaves something better. If you’re willing to pause long enough to notice it.

See, I never would’ve found that bill on my usual route. I never would’ve taken that turn, slowed down, or seen the flutter of paper. But something told me to veer off course.

And that’s the real jackpot.

The world doesn’t always reward speed or efficiency. Sometimes it rewards presence. A detour. An open heart. A slower pace.

So try it: pause the routine. Take a new street. Say yes to a conversation you’d normally skip. You may not find $100.

But you just might find something worth even more.