When was the last time you were awestruck?

Awe: an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by overwhelming greatness (as in beauty, power, or size)

For me, it started at 4:38am on a Wednesday.

I'd woken up earlier than usual because I tried to roll over and tweaked my sprained ankle. I had sprained it on the Saturday before, coming down from a hike on Saint Mark's Summit on Mount Cypress here in Vancouver. A sharp stab of pain contrasted with the warmth of my bed. "Guess I'm up now."

I got up and tried to slip out of bed without waking up my wife. With the bad ankle, it was a little trickier than I had expected. I lurched around the room a bit, staggering into my dresser and hopping out on my good leg.

Safely out of the bedroom, I'd more or less successfully achieved my quest to not wake my wife. She'd only grumbled, "What are you doing?" "Getting up," I said quietly as I shut the door behind me. I made it to the kitchen with the help of a crutch that I had placed in the hallway. I started to boil water and make a coffee to face the day.

"Woof." Oh no, my stomach dropped. "grrrr—Woof." I looked over at my dog, Pippin, upside down in his bed, eyes open, staring at me. It was going to be one of those mornings.

I hushed at my sweet pooch, hoping that he would chill out. You see, Pippin's not a fan of change. He doesn't tend to enjoy it when you're doing things when you shouldn't be doing things, and he has a wee little bit of anxiety when it comes to people entering his space. Add in my newfound need for crutches and this ungodly hour of waking, and you've got a recipe for a restless dog.

He got up and let out a low bark. I knew I needed to make moves or the quest would fail on a technicality: Pippin would wake my wife.

It was time to strap in—luckily, yesterday, I had visited urgent care to get my ankle checked to make sure that I didn't actually have a break or fracture because healing had slowed. I left with an air cast. When I put it on, I felt my agency return, crutches be damned—it felt so good to wobble-hobble-walk around.

I got the boot on. I grabbed my headphones. And I leashed up Pip to take him outside for a walk.

Once we were outside, I was drawn to the water. I live quite close to English Bay Beach. I could see the glass-like water from outside my apartment complex. The smell of the fresh flower beds our building had just planted permeated my nose, just like it did Pippin's, as he turned towards the water himself, pulling in that direction.

"Fine, we'll go look at the water. But no beach," I said to Pip, as if he'd understand that this boot and sand were a bad mix. A gentle breeze blew against us for the short two-block walk.

I didn't see it coming at all.

Standing at the top of a small green hill above the seawall, even Pippin paused. We both stood there looking at the beauty of nature.

The sun rose at 5:06am. A pale, muted purple blended with apricot and a pinkish flush as the light reflected across the water. I lifted my gaze towards the mountain ranges on the North Shore, across to the Sunshine Coast, and all the way to Vancouver Island. A perfectly clear day in the eerie silence of the early morning, it hit:

Awe.

How lucky am I?