2001-11-05 - 2:00 a.m.

Sometimes, every once in a great while, I see something that makes me understand where the basis of religion comes from. Not because of a fear of death and hope for an afterlife, or an attempt to understand what it all means or where it all comes from. None of these things make me really hope for a higher power, believe there is something more out there. But there is one thing, one fleeting moment that comes around occasionally and sticks with me for long after that makes me think that maybe some day I'll believe.

It can happen at any time of the year—or rather, any time of the year when the sun is up—and is beautiful every time, but only during autumn does it really make its full impact.

Throughout my life I've noticed that a lot of religious imagery has a common theme in the background of rays of sun breaking through dark clouds. And of course, one can come up with plenty of symbolic reasons for that, signifying the good, the light, breaking through an overwhelming darkness or evil. Sure, sure, that's the easy way to look at it. But I think it's more than that.

Yesterday, as I left my house to go on some routine errands, I looked up at the sky. There, clouds of all kinds seemed to mix harmoniously with each other. Bright white feathery streaks of clouds swept by high above me. To the west, near the sun, which was slowly drooping in the afternoon sky, darker gray clouds bobbed along like untethered dinghies drifting on a sea of air. Their edges, tattered like a well-loved blanket shone bright white. Whenever one would move in front of the sun, the dark gray looked even darker while the tattered edges and thinly worn creases burst with gold.

And to the south, heavy gray mats of cloud obscured the sky completely up to the place where they curl up on themselves in a line of short puffy white walls, bulging out, then curling back again. But the most important thing is not exactly the clouds themselves, but the result of the clouds.

What really struck me as I stepped onto the road, about to climb onto my bike, was how the leaves on the trees next to my house erupted with color when the sun peeked out from behind the floating clouds again. It was like the autumn leaves, already full of color, had suddenly taken on colors that previously didn't exist anywhere and were reserved for these exact moments. Moments where Nature just decides it's going to one-up everyone, kind of say "Sorry folks, I'm feeling creative, and try as you might, there's no way you're going to ever truly capture this."

These are the moments when I start to believe in some higher power up there. Like these new, bright, vibrant colors, bursting out of the drab, solid, gray background of the sky behind them, could never happen purely by accident, but would have to be the work of some truly great artist.

And if there were ever a religion I could follow, that would be the one. One of art and expression and beauty, with a truly great painter at the top. And really, that's all it would need.