As I have come to discover, Canada is a paradise for naturalist like me. In Canada, as in Jamaica, nothing else ushers me into the presence of the Divine quite like the majesty of untamed nature. For indeed I have listened to pine leaves whisper secrets older than scripture while walking the planes of Montpelier. I have watched the wind combed domes near the beaches of Hillshire, like fingers over harp’s strings. I have stood in meadows of wildflowers baptized in dew, felt the hush of creation’s breath from the stillness of the Blue Mountain peak. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the mystical Auroras Borealis of Canada. That night, the heavens themselves cracked open in an ethereal display of colors rare and bright, and I stood small, stunned, beneath ribbons of green and violet fire. It was as though the sky had peeled back a curtain, revealing the pulse of God’s own glory. And – I – lost – my – marbles; my words and everything else but awe. The silence was not empty but charged, as if even the stars were holding their breath. The lights danced like a celestial liturgy, each shimmer was a psalm, each ripple a prayer rising in the misty arctic air. I wept—not from sadness, but from some deep place where wonder lives untouched by reason. In that moment, I didn’t need answers or language. I saw God in the artistry of his brushstrokes and that was enough.
