My camera often serves as an extension of my canvas and palette, capturing moments that words or brushes can’t quite express. So when Jess invited me to watch a meteor shower with her, I eagerly agreed. Despite the overcast skies, we set out on a 65-kilometer drive north to Lake Simcoe after dinner, camera gear in tow, hoping the clouds would part.
As fate would have it, things didn’t go smoothly. My digital camera, unused for nearly a year, had reset itself, and I found myself fumbling with settings. Astrophotography has never been my strong suit; after all, I don’t usually paint celestial scenes. I became lost in the technical details, trying to capture something fleeting and elusive, while Jess, having already snapped a few good shots, lay down on the beach to simply enjoy the starry sky.
In the end, I didn’t get a single shot of the meteors. Frustrated, I surrendered to the moment, joining Jess on the sandy beach. I decided to let go of the pursuit of perfection and simply look up. That turned out to be the right choice. The sky had cleared, revealing a tapestry of stars, each one a tiny light in the vast darkness. The beach was tranquil, with only the gentle sound of waves breaking the silence. It was a moment of peace and connection, soothing and pure.
As I lay there, absorbing the beauty around me, a meteor suddenly blazed across the sky—a fleeting gift from the universe. I didn’t capture it with my camera, but I didn’t need to. Some moments are meant to be experienced, not just recorded.
