The other evening, I walked (purposefully) outside to enjoy one last sunset at the ranch in Wyoming before heading home the following day. Where the High Plains grow out of the basin into the Laramie Range, periodic creeks and rivers carve out the landscape of mesas, gulches, and undulating hills.
I reveled in the cool dusk (promising autumn on the near winds) and took in the quieting sounds of the world settling in for the evening.
And then I found myself walking with my head down, examining every rock on the path near me. I was certain I would be the one to find an arrowhead. The ranch owner has been there four years, and hasn’t found one yet… yet the previous owners had jars full of them. I was going to find one.
I missed the cloud underbellies turn from gold to pink and finally to gray. And I found no arrowhead. I caught myself, before spending too much more time staring downward. Why was I looking for the diamond when I was surrounded instead by the topaz and turquoise?
And how often do we go through life with our heads down, looking in vain for “the find”? Why do we forsake the wonder (albeit more common?) that exists around us for what often is but a flash in the pan?
I picked my head up and left the arrowheads under my feet. With endless horizons in all directions, broken only by a hawk or the rising moon, I took in the magnitude of all that was around me. And if I were to find an arrowhead, glancing down on happenstance, then it would be all that more special, as it was that moment in time that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and was open to seeing the diamond before me.