This text was born on a plane. On my way to Rome, I was caught off guard by the light streaming through the window. It was so soft, so vivid, that I instinctively reached for my phone to capture it. But the window was dirty: if I took the photo, I would also capture the smudges interrupting the beauty of the moment.
I took it anyway less perfect, less appealing. And for the last twenty minutes of the flight, I found myself reflecting on light, on what it reveals, on what it brings to the surface, while jotting down the thoughts passing through me.

And slowly, I caught myself speaking to my own heart, as if reminding myself of what light teaches:

You see the light.
You will sometimes see it bare, radiant.
You will sometimes see it veiled, covered, hesitant.
You will see it as a promise.
You will see it, and there will be moments when you are the only one who notices it.

You see the light.
There will be days when you are grateful to witness it,
and days when you won’t see it at all,
even when it stands right at your door.

You see the light: you will see it only if your heart allows it,
only if your own inner light rises to meet it.

You see, light reveals the stains, the contours, the imperfections.
And sometimes, light can be blinding.

And yet, through its clarity and its shadows, light remains what guides us, unveils us, and reminds us that beauty often comes intertwined with imperfections.

Written by Aliane Umutoniwase.