Magic in the Mundane

There’s something quietly magical about light. It doesn’t just let us see— it illuminates, breathes life, brings warmth, and protects us from the dark. Right now, I’m sitting in my favorite neighborhood boulangerie and for the first time I’m noticing how beautiful it looks with the sunlight streaming through. And—how have I never noticed this?

Sunlight is spilling in through the front windows, bouncing off the tile floor, catching on the crown molding, bringing warmth and dimension to details once hidden. It’s the kind of light that makes you fall in love again, even if only for a minute—bringing magic to the mundane. I’m surprised that I’ve only now noticed how beautiful this space is. I wonder how many other details have passed me by.

There was a time when I noticed everything. I remember being a kid, hypnotized by raindrops racing down windows or tiny rivers carving paths along the curb after a storm. I could lose hours watching the world do absolutely nothing.

It makes me wonder—when did I stop looking? I’m curious: in the search for the new, have I somehow forgotten how to appreciate the now? Maybe in always trying to move forward, I’ve forgotten how to just be where I am.

The sun’s moved now. The warm light is pulling back, retreating toward the window, leaving behind a softer, cooler glow. And yet, the patterned floors, the muraled walls, and the knickknacks in random nooks now seem more evocative of a Parisian café.

Maybe the morning light has illuminated more than just the café. I guess sometimes the brightest thing in the room isn’t the sun. Maybe it’s the fact that—for a moment—I remembered to look.