On my walk today, I stopped abruptly in the middle of a long climb up. Something told me to stand up straight and look out toward the mountains instead of down at my feet. And when I did, I found myself gazing through a precise tunnel of light between the branches and leaves… a small, perfect window across the mountain valley into the wide open sky and beyond. I almost missed it.

It lasted only a moment. And if I had stopped just a few feet in either direction, I would have completely missed it.

That’s the thing about unexpected gifts. They don’t announce themselves. They don’t wait for you to be ready. They simply exist in a moment in time… only briefly, in exactly one spot, for exactly one pair of eyes willing to look up at exactly the right time.

As you most likely already know, on technical terrain, your gaze must remain on the ground more often than not. Roots, rocks, wet leaves, uneven footing… the trail demands your full attention, and giving it anything less is how you end up face-first in the dirt.

But on my everyday walks through the forest surrounding my home, the terrain is familiar and fairly forgiving. I can swivel my head this way and that, freely taking in the world around me with only a side glance at the path directly ahead.

And yet, even on predictable ground, I often still catch myself with my eyes glued down… Subconsciously locked onto the earth as if it might suddenly betray me on a stretch I’ve walked a hundred times before.

Why is that do you suppose??

Well, I think a lot of it is our heavy heads. Seriously.

The human head weighs about eleven pounds, and it takes conscious effort to hold it upright and aligned over our spine rather than letting it droop forward. We are, as a species, increasingly becoming forward-leaning creatures… a phenomenon made exponentially worse by our devotion to the glowing devices in our hands.

And I am just as guilty. I’m using one right now, in fact, dictating these very thoughts into a machine as I walk up this trail. I love speaking my musings into a device that transcribes exactly what I say. (Okay, not exactly. Some of what I read back later is total gobbledy-gook.. which raises some very interesting questions about the intersection of technology and the subconscious mind.)

The irony is not lost on me. Here I am, writing about the importance of looking up… while looking down at a screen. Ha!

So, I suppose I am saying this to myself as much as to you. Look up. Not just at the epic overlooks and the panoramic vistas where everyone stops to take a photo. But in the in-between moments. The middle of the climb. The unremarkable stretches of boring. The places where nothing appears to be happening.

Because sometimes the most extraordinary moment is hiding through a window no wider than your hand, visible from only one spot on the entire trail, waiting for the one person who thought to take a moment to pause, lift their gaze, and observe what is right in front of them.

Be exactly where you are.

You are in the perfect place at the perfect time.