There's this legendary phenomenon that happens right after sunset and right before sunrise called The Green Flash. The atmosphere causes sunlight to separate and bend certain hues differently causing this effect.  There's always the moment before The Green Flash. The moment we don't think it we'll see it. We're looking so hard. Our eyes are in overdrive.  

Sometimes we're waiting on the same thing in our lives. That flash of something that transports us from who we were to who we will be. Often we feel the build up. The atmospheric pressure change of moving weather patterns in our bones. We know that the landscape of our life is about to change in a way we couldn't possibly predict. And as perpetual control clingers, we so often try to play 20 Questions while we wait. We want to know what the landscape will look like in the aftermath of the flash. Perhaps because we're overly attached to the state we're in. Maybe because over zealousness has caused us to romanticize the next chapter and we're anxious to see if it looks like we thought it would.

I've been thinking a lot about what the scenery for my next chapter will be. What props will I be leaning my stories against? I've been over efforting for an answer. Despite the feather pillowed goodness that the universe has continually caught me with, I'm naturally curious to a fault. It's hard not to ask "what next?" and "when?"

But then I saw The Green Flash. When I wasn't even thinking about a possibility as plausible, I said it out loud. And the words made sense. They fit. They just appeared in an instant on a canyon road without me arm wrestling the world for answers. And because there are never enough of these, it was one more reminder to be present. I want to enjoy all the sunrises and all the sunsets, whether or not I see The Green Flash. We travel from night to day and back again looking for that emerald spark of brilliance. We will see it exactly when we're supposed to. Now will soon fade to then. And we'll be searching for the next Green Flash.

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