When I was a child, living in a small suburb outside Cincinnati, my parents used to take me with them to choir practice every Wednesday night. (I was an only child, so they found it easy to drag me along on their social life; cheaper than hiring a sitter).
What made it worth my while to go along was that we'd always stop at the library on the way, and I would exchange the five books I'd taken out the week before for five new books, thus giving myself something to read while they rehearsed.
And what REALLY added a little zing to the trip was the chance that I might encounter one of the two brothers I had a crush on at the library -- because whenever that happened, my heart would give this delightful little leap of surprise. Which felt good. In fact, I grew addicted to that little leap, and in my late 20's for a while I could get the same little leap reading Barbara Cartland novels (ah, youth...).
These days the leap tends to come primarily either in the course of meditation (in which case it's more a surge than a leap) or through my eyes, when something surprises me with beauty -- as did this little scene I spotted while turning around in a side road on the island in order to return to a scene I wanted to photograph. The leap always seems to be about color: I get it sometimes while browsing in art galleries and museums, as well; something will just sing to me.
Even though the source/inspiration of the leap is different now, it still seems to me to be -- perhaps because it's centered in the heart, even if it's a response to something seen by my eyes -- about love; about the gift of attention, of noticing, that allows us to sense, however briefly, the larger, divine, love that surrounds us all.
I know. It sounds a bit far-fetched; it's just my interpretation. But when I catch sight of something like this brief explosion of light and color, I feel a wonderful sense of blessing washing over me... And now, as I look at this image one last time, I see Moses' burning bush. Perhaps this is, indeed, a glimpse of God.