Today’s accompanying tune: “Keeping Your Head Up” by Birdy
Much to my loved ones’ dismay, I have always been a sunrise person. I relish the quiet early morning hours trudging along the trail, the path ahead lit only by the beam of a headlamp. An early call time has rarely deterred me, save for the few moments after the alarm goes off and my place of rest makes a compelling case for snuggling back up, even if just for a few more minutes. Those hours before the world has awakened, those characterized by the slowly lightening sky above as the sun plans her entrance, those are the best of the day.
It is the closest thing, I imagine, to what optimism feels like. The day only just unfurling, reaching across the earthly domain, awakening the birds whose chorus floods the crisp morning air. The dew lingers as the air reluctantly warms. For a moment, the day could go anywhere, be anything. The possibility of greatness, of awe, swept up into the glowing light of the morning. No afternoon thunderstorms, no lingering haze of morning commutes. When those small catastrophes come, at least the memory of the sunrise — with all its possibility and hope — remain.
In the summer months, arising in time to greet the sun often means I’m winding down the day before the sun has sunk to the west. Its glow doesn’t paint the forest gold, but its ambiance remains in a sky that darkens only slightly even as the clock ticks onward. Sometimes its brilliance is apparent as I pad around ticking off chores before crawling under the covers; other times, the sun’s disappearance is only notable by the increasing opacity of gray overhead. The little blue house, tucked amongst the trees, sees only glimpses of the sunset when she deems us worth of dense golden beams shot through the branches of the trees to our west. She, too, is partial to sunrise.
The desert house was a sunset house. The San Bernardino Mountains loomed to the west with little in between, setting the stage for each nightly production. In the summer, the sun crested north of San Gorgonio, perching atop its northern neighbors on its journey. In the winter, it tucked itself neatly between the two 10,000-foot-plus peaks, marking the pass as its own. The sun disappeared long before the light — the best shows crescendoed just after the sun had sunk behind its horizon of choice as light filled the sky and it continued its march west. Though we couldn’t see it, though its warmth had faded, we knew it was still there lingering behind the mountains before it reached the Pacific.
The intensity of watching the sun sink below the ocean is another experience altogether. Without obstruction, without topography, it excels. The layers of light stack on top of one another, frosting the horizon with golds, oranges, reds so vibrant they’ve inspired millennia of artistic expression. How to capture the immensity, the fully immersive experience, of being swallowed in light? How to capture the emotion of the darkening sky pulling out all the stops, one last time, before it is enveloped in stars? How to capture the sacred, that steeped in awe? A nightly natural phenomenon along western shores that humans — despite our best efforts — can only ever fall short in describing, in depicting.
It is the closest we get, I imagine, to magic. It is fleeting and unpredictable, an equation I cannot solve but whose result I enjoy when I am lucky enough to bear witness. When left to its own devices, left without obstruction, the sun performs its best. Some may call it spiritual, or cathartic, or meditative. It is grounding and uplifting; wistful and contemplative. It doesn’t hold promise the way the sunrise does, doesn’t make promises it can’t keep. It doesn’t judge the day that has been, only marks its end. It can feel superfluous, an attempt to salvage an otherwise lackluster or downright difficult day.
Watching the sun sink into the Pacific Ocean, surrounded by people I love and experiencing more than I ever thought possible, was how I knew what it was like to experience joy at the end of the world. To feel buoyed by hope and love, to accept the days that have been and remain open to those still to come. To replace the optimism of the morning with the full heart and steadfast conviction that, come what may, this memory remains. This life, this day. To hold a multitude of emotions simultaneously — gratitude and grief, hope and despair, optimism and realism. As the darkness descends, we revel in the glow of moments before. Of seeing the light dance among the forest and paint the coastal rocks golden. Of watching the otter forage among the kelp forest and swiping mosquitoes from our feet. The heat of the day subsided, the breeze ushering in the marine layer of night.
The memory is enough for us to make it until the morning. To remember that the sun will return, in all her glory, even when the night seems at its darkest. To hold onto that which sustains us, warms us, in its glow even as the world descends into chill, into darkness. To watch the sun sink into the Pacific, to perform its magic and proclaim its joy, is to know the path forward. To watch it rise again is to hope, even for a moment, that we can weather all that comes.
It is not superfluous, nor is it futile. It is radical, and there are days when it is the whole point. So much so that, from time to time, I will happily trade those early morning hours — the hours of quiet and solitude — for a few extra moments basking in the warmth of love, the warmth of light.
As the sun shows us each day, a little bit of light can go a long way.
Here’s to finding a bit of joy at the end of the world.
- Megan