I
was watching the sunset the other day, and a lot of different
thoughts came crashing together.
The
visuals of the evening.
Memories.
The
wandering mind eventually led to considering perfection and imperfection.
Even more specifically, how often times the perfect moments really
aren’t, and occasionally the imperfect moments might just be.
Consider
a sunset.
I’ve
been able to experience some of the most incredible sunsets you
might imagine. Over the Pacific Ocean. In Key West, onboard a
relaxing wine cruise and with parrots at Mallory Square. From
a viewing area along the Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire.
Along the southern rim of the Grand Canyon.
Perhaps
some of the most memorable took place in my backyard. While not
possessing a pure view of the sunset, it was there. Terry and
I in our yard, sitting on the deck, perhaps eating a meal or just
having a drink. The sun goes down, day turns to twilight turns
to evening, and as daylight fades around us the fireflies begin
to cascade across the yard.
Often
presented as one of the most gorgeous spectacles, filled with
meanings that range from romance to religion, a sunset can create
a magical moment that rises in all sorts of ways to the description
of perfect. And yet…
Pick
a place where you can view a sunset. Your backyard. A local park.
The outdoor seating of a restaurant. A place where you could,
if you wanted, go to every night to watch a sunset.
Have
you ever noticed that the sun doesn’t set in the same place throughout
the year? Say you picked a field for your place to visit, and
on the first of these viewings you set up a picnic and gazed off
across rows of grapevines toward two trees as the sun set between
them. Pick the exact same place to put down a blanket, sit in
the exact same position to view the field and the grapes and the
trees, and over the course of twelve months the sunset is going
to shift. Won’t be fading off by falling between the trees every
night.
(Technically,
the sun actually only rises in the east and sets in the west on
two days of the year. The spring and fall equinoxes. That’s it.)
So
if it doesn’t set in the west all of the time, and it doesn’t
set in the same place all of the time, technically a sunset is
imperfect. But a sunset, for me and as a part of many of the days
of my life I treasure the most, is perfect.
Imperfectly
perfect.
(Note to anyone that wants to argue about cycles and natural occurrences
and repetition and such: We have to add a day to the calendar
every four years to stay on track. Nature is beautiful and wonderful
and predictable. It isn’t perfect.)
Often
the things we cherish as flawless have flaws. Or differences.
Or experiences change. But we appreciate them. Often because of
them, and sometimes despite them. For us, perfect. For others,
maybe not as much.
There’s
a road over there. Dirt road. Extending off into the horizon.
Autumn leaves on the trees that border it. Rising sun to our backs.
Might not be the road you’d like to travel. But for someone, it’s
perfect.