No matter how many rainbows we see, they never cease to be amazing. The urge to turn to whoever’s next to us, even the stranger on the bus, and share in the fleeting wonder of a sky awash with red and green, blue and orange, yellow and violet, is uncontrollable. Natural phenomenas kindle our sense of wonder and remind us of our humble place in the world. Volcanic eruptions, natural light shows, ice circles; very often, it’s the communality of the experience that is as affecting as the sight itself. Back in April, millions of people witnessed the ethereal spectacle of a total solar eclipse as it swept across North America. As I walked home from my studio that day, I felt a surreal kinship with all the many people gathering in clusters under the darkening sky. There’s nothing like a natural phenomena to bring a city to standstill and to turn our attention to the sky, to each other, and to ourselves. Even ones as everyday as sunsets feel like an invitation from the universe to pause and pay attention. It was in this spirit that I joined the worldwide group meditation yesterday in honour of filmmaker, David Lynch’s legacy and 79th birthday. “Let us come together, wherever we are, to honor his legacy by spreading peace and love across the world,” wrote his children in a tribute on social media. “Please take this time to meditate, reflect, and send positivity into the universe.” I suck at meditating. And I’ve not watched any Lynch films. But he seemed like a celestial guy. And God knows the world could use a huge embrace right now. And I love the feeling of connectivity that emerges through communal experience. So I rolled out my mat, settled into lotus pose and for a few minutes turned my face towards the sun. A globe-wide mediation, much like the two minutes of silence observed on Remembrance Day, can encourage emotions not so dissimilar to ones we feel when we see a rainbow or a sunset. Gratitude. Awe. Hope. Humility. Connectivity. Even if there’s no one sitting beside you, you know that someone, somewhere is sharing in this moment, too.

James Maroon is the pool cleaner for the 9/11 Memorial. I only know this because documentary filmmaker Josh Charow’s chose to make a film about him. Charow’s beautiful portrait made me think of all the millions of night workers paving roads, mopping floors, wiping turnstiles, baking bread that we don’t know about. All the quiet, unsung heroes of the night, the ones we never see and rarely think about, the ones who take care of schools and museums and airports while the city sleeps. Sometimes, in the depths of Winter I wake up and listen to the scraping of snow in the laneway behind our house and I know that tomorrow the path will be clear. “It gets dark in there sometimes, and you can lose yourself in there,” says Maroon of the reflecting pools. “But it’s pretty beautiful to see the sun come over the wall. It’s something that most people don’t get a chance to see.”

The first (and only) time I sat down at a potter’s wheel my fingernails were painted a vermillion red. “Those won’t last very long,” is all my teacher said as my hands scrambled to centre the lump of wet clay enlarging before me. I’ve since learned that a manicure is wasted on a potter’s hands. Too much water, too much mud. I cut my nails short, and once in a while, I slap on some Egyptian Magic. That’s my manicure. I like my hands. They’re weathered from the sun and from washing dishes and bathing babies and dipping sponges in clay water. They’re weathered from planting marigolds in the summer (to keep away the squirrels) and forgetting to wear gloves in the winter. I like these photographs of makers’ hands by Marilyn Lamoreux. Drafting, drawing, painting, weaving. There’s toughness and tenderness in each image.