Paul kept a small journal during his Costa Rica journey with his son—35 pages of raw observation, written in the moment or at day's end, capturing whatever felt worth recording. His entries read like dispatches from another world, precise and wondering. At Playa Cativo, on a night walk through the rainforest with their guide Allen, Paul witnessed the jungle's nocturnal theater: a black and white owl pivoting mid-flight to snatch a moth from the air, a snake gliding through grass in search of frogs, spiders with three-layer webs engineered to catch only prey of consumable size. But what stayed with him most was a simple instruction. Allen told them to hold their flashlights up to their faces, next to their eyes, and shine them down at the grass beneath their feet. What appeared then was revelation: the night sky had become their meadow. The grass was full of small points of light—spider eyes reflecting back—creating an effect of galaxies underfoot. "The jungle at night is deeply dark," Paul wrote, "and we were grateful for the night lights given us by Allen, not just to observe this little theatre of jungle movies, but also for the spiritual insight. For, for all its paradisal affect, a closer inspection at night reveals the soul's need for light."