It’s funny how you can see the same place over and over again and still never really see it. Then one day, someone points out one small, obvious detail, and you’re left wondering how you could have missed it all this time.
That happened to me today. A friend asked me what I saw at the top of a building I’ve passed countless times. I didn’t see anything. She had to point it out to me: the face of an angel, carved high above the street. It had always been there, quietly waiting, and somehow I had never noticed it.
Once I saw it, I found myself wondering: if I could miss something so obvious for so long, what else am I not see? Do we ever really see the whole picture?
Maybe it’s like that with most things. With places. With stories. With the images we build from what other people tell us, from our own observations, and even from the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. We collect fragments and mistake them for the whole.
My two cousins are here visiting, and I’ve been showing them the France I know and love—the streets, the places, the things I’ve come to cherish. Yet today I realized that even in a place I thought I knew so well, there was a beautiful detail I had completely overlooked. It made me wonder what details they’re noticing that I’m not. What stories will they leave with? What will they hold to be true about this place? What small, unexpected moments will stay with them long after they’ve gone home?
Perhaps we never truly see the whole picture. Perhaps all we can do is keep looking, knowing there is always another detail waiting to be noticed.
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