One day last week, I walked in my neighborhood along a house-filled street that I probably pass through twice a day.

The scenery was familiar, and yet, I always try to be conscious that each experience is different. Maybe the lighting at different times of day changes how I see things, or I might see things differently because of what I’ve already experienced that day.

As I looked up to take in the tops of elms and maples in my neighborhood, I noticed every tree seemed to hold a birds nest or two, sometimes more.

They were probably there the week or even months before, but I couldn’t see them because the trees were full of leaves.

And then the leaves turned colors, light yellow then dark gold. Then, the leaves lost their moisture and started curling inwards. The winds became stronger, and the leaves fell,  blanketing the grass and sidewalk in what seemed like a lifeless brown.

I quietly relished the crunch-crunch-crunch sound when I walked through a patch.

Up and down the block, I looked up at the tops of these trees and marveled at the constructions that housed whole families of birds. I never noticed these nests before.

What was so incredible?

• That I hadn’t noticed these structures before?
• That each nest, made by the birds themselves, represented a tiny everyday sort of miracle because it formed a home?
• That in this everyday fall sighting, I experienced the essence of revelation?

I suppose all these things were true.

Observant as I am, I was kind of surprised I hadn’t noticed these nests before.

Whether in the form of nests for birds or spots behind back porch stairs which become shelters for stray cats, I considered that I often don’t think about the many other species who also make their homes on this planet with us.

This is an interesting fact to ponder. We’re not alone, although as humans, we often act as if only our lives matter.

But, in these few seconds, when I recognized that I couldn’t see something  — until I could, I was filled with the notion that it was a metaphor for so many other discoveries in life. There is often a special moment when something, once hidden or not fully understood, is revealed.

In the eighties, there was a popular TV series, “Dallas,” where, over the summer season of reruns, fans were left with the nagging question, “Who shot J.R.?”  The answer may have satisfied a curiosity or confirmed a best guess, but that’s all.

A revelation is not only about a surprising fact made known. It‘s implied that the fact is important. It’s consequential. A revelation is a truth.

Very often, like childhood friends who get together romantically late in life and the pairing makes so much sense in retrospect, like the surprise is not at all surprising, when something that was once hidden is revealed, it seems impossible not to think of destiny or divine timing.

Maybe something is seen or understood only when circumstances are right or when those for whom a truth is revealed have grown into their capacity to appreciate their new understanding.

As I’ve set my intention on noticing the beautiful or unique or life-affirming in my surroundings, more daily miracles seem to flow into my awareness. Each day is ripe for a revelation because I’m open.

Appreciating the wonder of a birds nest in a nearby tree, visible only because leaves have fallen away and because I was ready to notice is just one example.

Noticing something that’s been there all along without being seen is no small thing