Sunrise, Sunset

I’ve recently returned from an autumn road trip to visit family in Wisconsin, but in reality, it was more like winter. The drive, round trip, took me through Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, and South Dakota. I encountered blizzards, food deserts, and corona virus scares. But once I made it to my destination, family was hugged, the old homestead spruced up, and I even helped my daughter settle into her chic apartment in Chicago’s West Loop. I loved spending time with her, but I had trouble sleeping surrounded by the lights and sounds of the city, and my back went out because I think I am still 25. Yet, when the weather forecast was promising, I was determined to set out on my return trip to Montana.

On the last day, of that most uncomfortable drive, I rose at 5:30 AM in South Dakota, masked up, swallowed a couple of Advil, and dined on one of those hotel chain breakfasts that offered powdered scrambled eggs, sugary yogurt, and slices of bread neatly packaged in individual baggies for sanitary purposes. The coffee was great because it was hot. I took a cup to go as I entered the frigid and dark outdoors, snow crunching beneath my feet. I unlocked the door to the Jeep, started her up, and immediately put the heat on defrost. I thanked the sun, moon, and stars for the genius who invented heated car seats, while shrugging off my Patagonia puffy jacket, another ingenious invention.

I started my trek in muffled silence, the headlights highlighting the sometimes-visible dotted yellow line before me. For well over an hour, I drove due west, encountering a few kindred spirits forging ahead in their semis. They, too, faced the dark and the emptiness, the feeling of being lost and yet on the way to somewhere. At long last, a glance in the rearview mirror brought relief in the form of a sliver of daybreak stretching across the eastern horizon.

The color of a winter’s daybreak is hard to describe, perhaps dusty tangerine, faded flamingo, or muskmelon. Because my mind works the way it does, this slice of promise reminded me of all the places I have lived that were graced with spectacular sunsets: the dramatic co-mingling of cloud, sun, and sky just after the pink moment in Ojai, California, the watercolor strokes over the lake in Wisconsin, and the expanse of a prairie sunset in Montana.

I continued on in silence—no talk radio or music to distract me. Periodically, I checked up on the advancing daybreak behind me, and well, a funny thing happened. It swallowed me up. The sunrise overwhelmed me…and within it, I heard a newborn baby cry and also the rattled, last breath of a loved one passing in a hospital room. I smelled Mom’s still warm, fried donuts dusted with sugar and a summer afternoon’s cut grass. I felt the soft curly fur of my little dog. I tasted candy canes. I also felt all alone and yet part of it all.

Time passed and all the darkness was overcome by gray, then silver, lavender, buttermilk yellow, and eventually sky blue. A new November day.

Upon my return home, to Montana, my internal clock was a bit off. I woke in the now all-too-familiar dark on a chilly morning, brewed a cup of strong Irish Breakfast tea, clicked on the electronic fireplace, and sat with the afghan around my shoulders. I watched with reverence as the sun rose, reflected in the glass fire screen above the flickering flames.

The newscasters, the doctors, the politicians, the experts, even the grocery store clerk predict a dark, cold, long, isolating winter. All the more reason to seek out the light and find an iota of hope in each and every break of dawn. All the more reason to be home.

Happy Thanksgiving.

(Sunsets L to R: California, Wisconsin, Montana)