This morning I took a run at sunup. The moment I stepped out the door, I saw it: Set against the deep blue of the Sandia Mountains shone a brilliant, shimmering rainbow. At the time I saw it, I was afraid of my upcoming day. I’m writing for a new editor who has expressed displeasure with the personal nature of my work.

He wants the publication to be a slick travel magazine focused on what people can do. My writing treats that topic, but more, it is about being in the place itself, honoring it. It is about the rainbows that I experience.

Rainbows are so miraculous because they appear real—so touchable—and yet they are completely ephemeral—dissolving as fast as they appear. They may be the height of beauty in the material world, and yet they are illusory.

For me, they confirm the truth that what is most perfect, beautiful and real is not what we see or do, but what we can’t see, what we can only sense in our most quiet moments: That voice that tells us all is fine, and that we are safe, eternal and loved completely. That rainbow resides within each of us—all we need do in any moment is remember it.

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