Christmas Eve from Above

You have never truly seen the Pacific Northwest until you've seen it at sunrise, as your plane emerges from the dense blanket of cloudcover nestled above the sleepy Seattle suburbs. You hover above an ocean of mist and darkness, peering ahead towards the fierce, orange glow of the horizon. This is a sight you can never forget. You crane your neck to peer ahead, but the shadows and twinkling lights of land have disappeared; beneath you are only the violet-grey rolling waves of the morning mist.

From where you sit, all is clear. The deep, heavy azure of the starlit heavens above is only made deeper by the fiery, vivid light of the approaching spectacle of morning. And as your aircraft banks east, the mountain lies before you, more stately and majestic than you've ever seen her. She rises up from the sea of clouds, still deep indigo against the coming light of day.

Minutes steal by unobserved, as your plane pulls close to the mountain, and circles, as though it were a moon to the indescribable mass. You have only ever seen her as a far-off mural against the sky, but today she is alive. She is real. And she is monstrous. Cameras are out, but you refrain. No photo could capture the tremendous wonder before you; it would only cheapen it.

You continue your journey east into the sunrise, but gaze back to see the first true light of dawn greet the face of the mountain. And this happens every day?

I miss so much. I am so blind to the beauty around me. I want my eyes wide open and anxious to behold the preciousness of life - whether in joy or heartache, laughter or tears, friendship or loneliness. There's enough hopelessness in the cities under the clouds. If we have been blessed with the beauty of the mountain, we ought to carry it with us when we return, to light the valleys below.