Watch the way the light moves through a glass of ice water.
From billions of miles away it came. It stirred up on the surface of the sun and jumped straight into space.
According to Cornell University, the travel time was 8 minutes. The light leapt from that churning surface out into the universe. Other light slapped smack into Mercury or Venus, equally dazzling someone or no one. Some light landed on the clouds at sunset. Some light traveled that 8 minutes across the universe and landed softly on the tree outside your porch windows, sweeping along the edges of the leaves. But this particular light you see now, this light is dancing around on ice cubes, swimming swiftly like fish around coral. Then before you can imagine it, it jumps right up to warm your face.
It took 8 minutes for that light to travel the universe and show you that tiny, quiet dance in a glass of water.
I feel like I haven’t stopped moving. Not since 2008, that year I moved to Panama and my whole life started spinning in absolutely brilliant ways. (Brilliant in the way the swift-panning view from a train window is brilliant.) One thing that has stayed consistent is the arrival of these tiny reassurances, these tiny little gifts that mark the fact that we are all still in this together. They are reminders that beauty will always be beautiful. They are reassurances that whether or not I’m paying attention, miracles are happening whenever I’m ready to be part of them.