23 Oct Reflecting Awe
I was sitting on our hotel balcony with a cup of coffee, watching the waves roll in, when the most extraordinary rainbow appeared. Its arc stretched across the horizon, every color distinct. On the surface of the water, its reflection wavered and danced, the same rainbow made fluid by the sea.
I slid open the glass door and called for the girls. “Come quick!” They ran out in their pajamas, their hair still mussed from sleep, and we stood there barefoot, the ocean air cool against our faces.
For a while it was only us, the girls and me, pointing and whispering as if our voices—or even our presence—might break the spell. Then, from the other side of the balcony wall, a man’s voice joined ours, a soft echo of wonder that matched our own. We couldn’t see him at first; only our voices carried back and forth above the sound of the waves. Then I leaned over the railing, and there he was: an older man with deep wrinkles around his eyes, smiling as he waved with his phone.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” he called. He reached across the narrow gap between us, steadying himself as he offered me his phone. “Swipe,” he said, half proud, half shy. “I’m not the best picture taker, but it’s been coming and going all morning.” His screen was filled with photos of the rainbow appearing and fading as the light shifted over the water. “It’s like the sky and the ocean are answering each other,” he said, almost to himself.
Awe, I think, isn’t meant to be kept. It’s meant to be passed across balconies and breakfast tables, between strangers and families and whoever happens to be standing near enough to say, “Look! Do you see it too?”
On that morning, the rainbow answered itself in reflection, and across balconies, so did we.
Light, carried a little farther.