Here’s a photo of the view from my window as I was leaving the beach on Sunday. It was a sunrise that was quick and fast and steady despite the wind whipping at the trees.

We said our goodbyes and headed back north, thick in the rain that was our constant companion for over 400 miles. Looking at this photo and knowing that in just 72 short hours someone I love very much (who was looking at it, too) was going to be in the hospital makes it even more beautiful. And more delicate and more raw and more sacred.

Why is it universal that we all don’t know how much we love someone or something until it is challenged or lost? Why is it universal that we all know this and remind ourselves of it, but still, the shock of possible loss strikes us nearly powerless? Is it that, in the interim, we forget the sanctity and beauty of love and closeness?

Do we try and ignore the inevitable to keep up with our daily chores? Do we disregard it because to feel the fragility of everything would weigh too heavy and too dear?

Things like these are what I wonder waiting for updates and reports from doctors. I wonder why the acuity of life is only heightened when loss is on the line. And if there is a way to contain that sanctity and hold it close always without the weight of sadness and positive thinking and fingers crossed.