Santa Fe, New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. January 4, 2016. 5:00 AM.
Black sky blanketed in twinkles. My sister, her 29-year-old son Trevor, and I (coffee in hand, bundled up), stood outside gazing skyward awaiting the predicted meteor showers.
Jayne saw one! Then Trevor! Then one flashed in my view! For the next 45 minutes, there were lulls, but I bet I saw a dozen falling stars. Fast and bright. They lit me up the way falling stars always do, glistening with personal hope, like the Universe just winked at me. And grandeur—a word that’s too big for my tongue, but belongs with stars, planets, and the vastness of a thing called GALAXY.
Like a miracle maybe you didn’t see, the stars dropped so quickly we rarely witnessed the same ones. When we did, those danced into our view like strings just outside of a kitty’s reach. Then gone.
With each sighting, a rush—like the kind from learning to ride a bicycle—flashed through my body. I got kissed by pure, childlike excitement. Breathtaking.
Worth it. Totally worth it to get up at what I consider a ridiculous hour to share something beyond my nephew’s knowledge and explanation, even beyond the three-ring bonding, which is badass for any family that has a history. Once you get what these moments mean, you stop missing them. Can you imagine missing out on a miracle?
Sometimes, I force myself to go greet falling stars with family and let the Universe sweep my soul and make room for something bigger—like authentic, effervescent oohs and aahs.