The Tallest Thing I Knew

When I was seven, my grandfather took me to the edge of the harbor to show me the lighthouse. I remember the way the paint peeled in long, sun-baked strips, and how my neck ached from trying to find where the top met the clouds. To a child, a lighthouse is not a tool for sailors; it is a giant standing guard over the edge of the world, a silent sentinel that knows exactly where the land ends and the mystery begins. I spent that afternoon convinced that if I climbed high enough, I could see the curvature of the earth itself, or perhaps catch a glimpse of the ships that never returned. We are taught as we grow that these structures are merely functional, built for safety and navigation. But I still remember the feeling of being small beneath that height, sensing that some things are built simply to stand firm while the rest of the world rushes by. Do you ever wonder what the horizon looks like from the perspective of something that never moves?

Cristina del Fresno has captured this feeling perfectly in her image titled Faro de Aveiro. She reminds me of that day at the harbor, where the stripes reach toward the sky and the wind seems to hold its breath. Does this reach toward the clouds make you feel grounded or adrift?