Moments of Divinity

Walking through the Monet traveling exhibit in Boston during a French class fieldtrip in high school, listening to the tutorial audio cassette recording.

My freshman year of college, lying under the stars at 8,000 feet, closest to the Milky Way, furthest from home.

Hiking down Lafayette with my father and younger brother, noticing the quietly dripping ferns and hearing, in my mind, "This is the forest primeval," from Evangeline.

Reading on my stomach in the dining room, my childhood cat Midnight curled up next to me, waiting to go have special macaroni and cheese at Grammie's house.

Watching my 6-month old son wake up in the bed next to me and give me a huge grin as soon as his eyes focused on mine.

Hearing my daughter laugh for the first time, a chortle so loud it almost knocked me over next to the changing table.

Realizing, as I arrived at our little Alaskan condo after work, that the absence of my future husband's car in the parking lot gave me a profound feeling of disappointment, a recognition of how happy and at peace I felt when he was present.