On Missing A Sunset
A lesson in paying attention.
Why did I not stop fussing in the kitchen to look out the window at that amazing sunset? I’d noticed it forming, a peachy blush beginning to reflect on the bottoms of the clouds, sculptural masses shifting and subtly taking on color, the delicate deepening azure above. “Another sunset happening,” I noted to myself as I glanced out the window and reached into the fridge to get the carrots.
I am blessed with a spectacular western view of an urban skyline, high up overlooking a river. Light reflects on the wide expanse of still water as it wraps around the bend and spills off over a dam downriver. Geese congregate regularly down below and have honking parties. Sunsets happen on a regular basis, and I’ve seen many since I moved to this loft in an old mill building on the Blackstone River a few years ago. So when I glanced out the window and thought “oh, another sunset. I have too many pictures of sunsets already, why bother with another one?” and went back to making dinner and listening to the news, it didn’t occur to me I was missing something divine, unique, blessed.
By the time I looked up and realized I had missed this one, it was fading into darkness; the burning leftovers of cloud forms gave me a sense of what had been. I had a sudden stab of regret, a feeling of loss. I just knew it had been a killer sunset, a real stunner — the afterglow was like embers on the horizon. I watched the fading remains of light on the dark skyline, which moments before had been aflame with an extraordinary palette of brilliant hues. But I’d missed it.
Missing an opportunity to experience a particularly stunning sunset — it was in fact a choice. I had been unconscious. I’ve seen so many spectacular sunsets. Do I remember them? Maybe the ones I remember best are the ones I did not take a picture of; in this case, the one I missed.
Here’s the thing I forgot — if you’ve seen one sunset, you’ve seen… one. Every sunset is unique, a moment in time, a miracle of light, color, strokes of magic that will never be repeated. Like snowflakes.
Why did I ignore an opportunity to drink in divinity when it was offered to me as a gift on a silver platter, right before my eyes? Perhaps I chose not to pay attention at that moment so that I would have the opportunity, however painful, to experience this fleeting feeling of loss, as a reminder to be present the next time, to pay attention, to be grateful for the gift of observing extraordinary beauty, at any given moment. The opportunity to experience a moment of bliss, without having to record it. That one sunset that will never happen again.
Don’t forget to pay attention.
