This morning I witnessed the most enthralling sunrise I have ever seen. It was one of those crystal clear mornings when the mountains seemed so close you could reach out and touch them, their presence was a palpable force.
The sky was lightly overcast with a puffy white grey ceiling of clouds seeming close overhead, yet they were filled with ragged holes, letting the eye wander to the deep black blue above.
Ever so slowly, just inside the range of perception, the light began to shift. First diffuse then beginning to focus the way a spot does on stage. Into sharp relief came the peaks of the coast range, thrusting into the clouds. Slowly the spot light faded, then remerged closer on the flanks of the nearest mountains, bathing the wind sculpted curves in a creamy white glow, soft and sensuous.
Then the real lightshow began, the spotlights languidly shifting from ridge to mound to peak to headwall to serrated edge and back again. The blue holes in the ceiling shifted from light turquoise over the mountains to purples and violets overhead.
This sunrise unfolded slowly; its lotus petals opening to release warm light to melt the cold morning sky. I felt like I was sitting in the first balcony, watching the house lights gradually bring the stage sets to life.
But the most remarkable thing of all was that I not looking east at the rising sun, I was looking west into the mountains, watching them as they were animated by the light from behind.
So it was that I experienced this remarkable sunrise by turning my back to it, absorbing its energy and beauty reflected by the canvas of the mountains. This makes me wonder how often we miss the best moments because we focus on the spectacular, rather than the softer, more subtle energies flowing around us.