Today, I had a moment. Call it an epiphany, or just an unsuspecting, flitting thought that somehow got filtered out of the monotonous hum of voices in my head.
But no matter what you call it, it was a moment. A moment that wasn’t really a moment, but just two halves of could be and what couldn’t be.
And I don’t know if I can put that moment across with the eloquence it deserves, but I know I’ll do so honestly.
I’ll start at the beginning, the way all good things start: I was having a bad day. A bad, bad day. Which is probably the least descriptive word I could have chosen, because the possible definition of those three letters are so many and so infinite, that I could really mean anything. But maybe that’s just it. Maybe my day was the kind of bad you might understand. Or maybe it’s the kind of bad the person sitting next to you might.
But whether you understand it or not, there I was, with a bad, bad day. One I wasn’t even halfway through.
My moment came.
It snuck up on me so quietly, I almost didn’t realize it at first. But aren’t those the best kind of surprises, the ones that silently take your breath away?
I won’t tell you exactly what that moment was, though. There’s no point in doing that. Your moment will probably be different from mine in every way possible, and if you have to feel every bit of that moment, your moment, you need to do so with a clean slate, untainted by my own moment.
I will however, tell you what my moment told me, so you’ll know to keep an eye out for yours.
It told me that no matter how bad things get, there will always, always be something good in there, somewhere. If you just look hard enough, you'll always find those little specks of light dancing in the shadows.
And these little specks are what could make all the difference in the world, because when you believe in them and what they stand for, you let them grow brighter. And brighter. And brighter.
Until they’re almost blinding you, until for a single second, you forget there were any shadows to begin with.
And then the impossible happens. That single second stretches into a minute and then an hour and then a day and a week and a month. Eventually, it stretches into a forever.
It becomes a piece of a forever than you can run your fingers over and clutch tightly in center your palm, because it belongs to you.
It’s the piece you look at to remind yourself, when you feel like you’re trapped in a room so dark and quiet you’re not even sure you exist, that even the darkest, quietest room will always have a speck of light floating, just a breath away from your fingertips.
All you have to do is reach out and touch it.
Originally published on March 8, 2014.