There's beauty everywhere. There are amazing things happening

Host: The morning mist hung low over the city, softening the edges of the skyline. The air was cool, damp with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and freshly brewed coffee from a nearby street cart. Jack sat on a bench facing the river, his grey coat buttoned to the neck, his hands clasped, his gaze lost in the water’s slow ripple.

Jeeny approached quietly, carrying two paper cups that steamed in the cold air. She handed one to him without a word, and for a long moment, they simply sat, listening to the city’s muted heartbeat — the distant horns, the soft wings of pigeons, the whisper of wind threading through steel and sky.

Host: It was one of those mornings when the world felt too large and too fragile at once — when even the light seemed hesitant to commit.

Jeeny: “You’ve been coming here every morning lately.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s quiet here. The noise doesn’t reach this far. Or maybe it does, but I’ve stopped hearing it.”

Jeeny: “You look tired.”

Jack: “I am. Life’s been… blurry. Like someone smudged the edges.”

Jeeny: “Sarah McLachlan once said there’s beauty everywhere, that amazing things are always happening — we just have to open our eyes to witness it. Some days, that’s harder than others.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Harder than others, yeah. You ever notice how people always say that kind of thing after something terrible? Like it’s supposed to heal you through perspective.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not heal. Maybe just remind. Because it’s easy to forget. Beauty doesn’t vanish when we hurt — we just stop recognizing it.”

Host: The fog thickened, wrapping the city in silver. Jack’s eyes followed a small boat drifting across the river, its wake trembling in perfect concentric rings — soft, fleeting, almost invisible.

Jack: “I used to think beauty was something extraordinary — the kind of thing you had to chase. Big moments. The view from a mountain. A perfect performance. But lately, I can’t find it anywhere. Everything looks… grey.”

Jeeny: “Maybe beauty isn’t gone. Maybe it’s just quiet right now. You’re used to it shouting, and now it’s whispering.”

Jack: “You think beauty whispers?”

Jeeny: “All the time. You just have to slow down enough to hear it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it cut through the mist like a beam of light through fog. A seagull swooped low, catching a flicker of the sun, and for a second, the world shimmered — fragile and alive.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never lost sight of it.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve lost sight plenty. There were days I couldn’t see beauty in anything — not in people, not in the sky, not even in myself. But it wasn’t because it wasn’t there. It was because I’d built walls to survive. Beauty can’t knock on closed doors.”

Jack: “Then how do you open them again?”

Jeeny: “You start small. You notice the coffee’s warmth in your hands. The way the air smells after rain. A stranger holding a door. It sounds simple, but it’s not. It takes courage to find beauty when life feels empty.”

Host: A train passed across the distant bridge, its rumble blending with the river’s breath. The morning fog began to lift, revealing faint reflections — buildings, clouds, fragments of sky returning to themselves.

Jack: “Courage, huh? Funny word for noticing things.”

Jeeny: “It’s the right word. Because it means choosing to stay awake when you could easily go numb.”

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting to see it?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But that’s what makes it sacred. If beauty were easy to find, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying a swirl of yellow leaves down the pathway. Jack watched, his eyes following their slow dance. For a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted — not a smile, but something close.

Jack: “You know, I used to come here with my mom. Every Sunday. We’d sit right on this bench. She’d point at the water and say, ‘Look, it’s never the same twice.’ I never got it then. I thought she was just filling the silence.”

Jeeny: “She was teaching you to see.”

Jack: “Maybe. She always believed the world was good — even when it wasn’t. I used to envy that. Now I think I just miss it.”

Jeeny: “It’s still there, Jack. The good. The beautiful. It doesn’t vanish when people do. You just have to look again — the way she would have.”

Host: He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers — a fragile connection between two people standing on the edge of something vast and unseen. The fog had thinned now, revealing the outline of the bridge, the first true color of morning creeping into the world.

Jack: “So what — I just… look harder?”

Jeeny: “Not harder. Softer. Don’t chase it — let it reveal itself.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you wait. Sometimes, even the smallest beauty needs time to be noticed.”

Host: A pause. The river flowed steadily, silver scales shimmering along its surface. Jack’s fingers tapped his coffee cup, a slow rhythm that matched the city’s hidden pulse.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Faith in light, in motion, in the fact that something amazing could be happening — even if you can’t see it yet.”

Jack: “Sarah McLachlan must have meant that, right? That the hard days don’t cancel out the beauty — they just make seeing it a little harder.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because beauty isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence.”

Host: The sun finally broke through the clouds, spilling soft gold across the river, turning it from grey to living fire. Jack squinted, his eyes watering, but he didn’t look away.

Jack: “You know, I see it now. The light. The movement. Even the noise has a rhythm.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “That’s all it takes. One moment of seeing clearly. It doesn’t fix everything, but it reminds you that the world’s still trying.”

Jack: “Still trying…” he repeated softly, as if testing the truth of it. “Maybe that’s enough for today.”

Jeeny: “It’s always enough for today.”

Host: They sat quietly as the day unfolded, the city awakening around them. Cars hummed, voices rose, birds scattered — life resumed, ordinary and miraculous.

The river shimmered brighter now, the fog gone, the water alive with color and motion. Jack leaned back, his shoulders relaxing, a faint peace settling over him.

Host: And for the first time in a long time, he saw not just the world, but his place in it — small, uncertain, and beautiful.

Host: Because sometimes, the miracle isn’t in what we find — it’s in remembering how to look. And though some days it hurts to keep our eyes open, it’s only through that effort that we witness the quiet truth Sarah McLachlan knew: that beauty is everywhere, even when the world forgets to show it.