The Ocean Above Us

Notes From the Hollow Bone | Entry fifty-six

I stepped outside for what was supposed to be a short break.

One of those ordinary moments between responsibilities, when the day asks for another cup of coffee and another meeting before it finally lets you go home.

Instead, I looked up.

The sky had become an ocean.

Not literally, of course.

Clouds had stretched across the blue in long, rolling bands that looked like waves moving toward a distant horizon. For a moment, I forgot where I was standing.

I wasn't looking at the sea.

I was looking at the sky pretending to be one.

I did what I always do when wonder interrupts my day.

I reached for my phone.

Not because I was trying to capture proof, but because I have learned that beauty has a way of disappearing if I don't pause long enough to acknowledge it.

I hurried back inside and found someone nearby.

"Come look."

I held out my phone.

Without hesitation they smiled and said,

"It looks like the ocean."

That mattered to me more than the photograph itself.

Wonder became something we shared.

There is a quiet comfort in discovering that another pair of eyes can see what your heart saw first.

Lately I have been wondering if life offers us these moments far more often than we realize.

Not because extraordinary things happen every day.

But because ordinary things are constantly waiting for someone to notice them.

Perhaps that is why I have become so reluctant to rush.

There is too much to miss.

The wind has conversations with the trees.

Rain leaves stories on wooden floors.

Birds gather in patterns that seem almost impossible.

Clouds become oceans.

None of these moments ask for applause.

They simply wait for someone willing to look long enough.

I used to think attention was something I gave.

Now I wonder if attention is something I receive.

An invitation.

A quiet whisper that says,

"Slow down.

There is more here than you first imagined."

I don't know if everyone would have seen the ocean that afternoon.

Maybe some would have only seen clouds.

Neither observation would have been wrong.

But I am grateful that, for one brief moment, someone stood beside me and saw the same horizon.

That small exchange reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

Sometimes the greatest gift isn't discovering wonder.

Sometimes it is discovering you are not the only one who sees it.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai