On the way to work this morning, the sky is Indian red. I drive underneath a cloud of starlings—thousands of silhouettes whirling out of the trees on the hillside. The light is coming earlier, the dark dispersing like spilled ink thinning on paper.
And I am right here.
Here in this minivan motoring along I-64 on my way to Charleston—covered with an Indian red sky. Here in this forty-ish body that is softening in the middle and graying on top. Here. In this particular place, at this particular time.
The earth lifts up to meet the sky and the red fades yellow and my eyes are full—my heart is full—with right now.
How many minutes have I lived in this space my body takes up—wishing I was somewhere else? How many hours have I frittered away, longing? And what would happen if I gave this moment its due? If I stayed right here?
It’s a tiny glimpse of kairos, this way my eyes are seeing and I—I am peeking into heaven.
I lean over to turn off the radio. And I watch the light come.