One rainy night a few weeks ago, as I wandered the deserted Saint Mary's College campus, I stopped outside the student union to watch the fountain. Raindrops rippled in puddles, and the veil of water, falling from the fountain in a soft and constant hush, was lit by streamers of hanging light bulbs. It was beautiful. I took a picture and then a slow-motion video, trying to capture the fall of individual drops of water from that veil. I expected to see, when watching the footage, nothing more or less miraculous than this.

Instead, what I saw on screen, along with that slow motion fall of water, was a curious pulse of light. A glitch, I thought, and shot another video with the same result. Rain drops, striking the overhead bulbs had, all this time, been shaking the fixtures a fraction of an inch, creating a throb of light too fast for the naked eye to see.

Nothing had changed. I hadn’t moved from the protected alcove. Yet my heart was racing. I felt mystified and oddly euphoric by the revelation of this in-between-time, which existed within the seams of my perceptions. It felt miraculous, like a gift. Shamans and Buddhists, anyone really, who has experienced altered states of consciousness, knows that one’s awareness deepens when the speed of perception slows. By slowing down—even by mechanical means, or by necessity imposed by a global pandemic—we too come to know, with greater intimacy, what we thought we knew before. We gain, by accident as much as necessity, new eyes to see.

​I don’t normally credit my iphone as a tool for spiritual growth. But perhaps all things, even technology, has this potential. Now, the memory of that strobing light is an echo each time I walk by that courtyard. I’m reminded of the limits of my perceptions, and of the unseen wonders that surround me, and I am grateful.