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This morning, I was contemplating how someone might chase the sunrise around the world. Imagine boarding a plane and following the dawn, stretching those few precious moments into hours.
Naturally, I considered the business possibilities. An extended sunrise experience. Another million-dollar idea to add to my imaginary portfolio.
Then I looked out my window.
There it was. The very thing I had been contemplating traveling around the world to experience.
A narrow ribbon of orange stretched across the horizon. Above it, layers of pink and lavender clouds floated against the fading darkness. My spider plant stood silhouetted against the window, its leaves reaching into the morning sky.
I picked up my cell phone and took a photograph.
No expensive camera. No carefully planned expedition. No airline ticket. I hadn't even changed out of my pajamas.
Just an ordinary October morning, viewed from my studio window.
I've spent years traveling, exploring back roads, discovering remarkable landscapes, and collecting moments that reminded me how extraordinary this world can be.
Yet here I was, standing in a familiar room, looking at something equally remarkable.
It occurred to me that sometimes our search for extraordinary experiences can take us thousands of miles, while other times those experiences arrive quietly, without an invitation.
Perhaps the difference isn't always where we are.
Perhaps it's whether we're paying attention.
Observe. Pause. Discern. Choose.
This morning, I chose to look out the window.
And the world put on a show.
I wasn't writing about living in the light. I wasn't explaining it or teaching it. I was simply living it.
And I was grateful that the sunrise knew exactly where to find me.
We don't have to travel to the ends of the earth to find wonder. Sometimes we simply have to return to awe.