How many times in our lives will we read or hear about sunsets and sunrises? Thousands. We write poems about it, blog about it, buy houses for their view of it, travel the earth to see it in novel ways, and tell about it over coffee or wine. Why? And why don’t we get tired of it? It’s not all aesthetics. The dawn can be full of dread for someone facing a day of pain or hardship. The sunset can be the doorway into a night of loneliness or fear.
This morning I looked out the window at a colorless tangle of trees and melting ice. Another gray day. I blinked, sensing a subtle distortion in my vision. Then, as if it were liquid, pink began quietly filling the world out there, and in a matter of moments, permeated everything. No drama. No way to describe it other than its humble four letter name. Then as quietly as it had arrived, pink faded out, leaving a new version of gray.
This moment, and sharing it, has made it a good day.