I Remembered to Look Up

A few days ago, I offered a simple reminder:

Stop looking backward.
Stop looking forward.
Stop looking down.
And remember, sometimes, to look up.

A few nights later, while walking with Jersey, I remembered to take my own advice.

It was around 9:30 in the evening. We were making our way toward the marina when I looked up.

I could describe what I saw scientifically: a waxing gibbous moon, nearly full, illuminating scattered altocumulus clouds drifting across the night sky.

And there is something beautiful in knowing those words.

But sometimes knowing what something is is less important than allowing yourself to experience what it feels like.

So I stopped.

Jersey kept exploring the path ahead while I gave myself a few moments to simply look upward.

The clouds caught the moonlight. Darkness became shades of silver and blue. Shapes appeared and disappeared. And for a little while, my mind was allowed to wander wherever the sky wanted to take it.

Nothing needed to be accomplished.

Nothing needed to be understood.

There was nowhere else I needed to be except beneath that sky, holding a leash, looking up.

Perhaps that is why we need these little reminders.

Sometimes we write words for others only to discover that, a few days later, they have quietly become instructions for ourselves.

So once again:

Remember to look up.

And when you do, don’t just identify what you see.

Let yourself wonder.

Haiku

Moonlight catches clouds
Jersey leads beneath the stars
I remember—look up.