My office faces northeast, and as I look out the window, everything seems shrouded in a curtain of a brightly streaked fog, the bare shapes of skyscrapers rising from a dark mist below. But as I look closer, there is no fog outside, just the typical humidity low to the ground. The windows are all fogged over, tiny streams of condensation running down the panes, and my wall looks like gold from the pattern projected onto it.
This is one of those moments I won’t remember in a week’s time, and even if I had a camera, it wouldn’t capture its beauty. It’s these moments that remind me that life is still beautiful, the spiritual is still here in my life. I’m not some poor slob flailing along through the mists of darkness, having loosened my grip on the iron rod. I feel connected.
Last night after the kids went to bed, my wife and I talked for a long time, and we were just one with each other, lying there in bed together, talking about our lives, her head resting on my chest. Every time we think there is a wedge driving us apart, all we need to do is talk, and I see in her the same beauty and spirituality, the same connection we’ve always had. No camera, no recorder, could capture that moment anymore than it could the sun rising over an otherwise occupied city.