Sunset begets the fading glory of the day’s luminous, glorious sun. If ever I am overwhelmed by circumstances or feelings, whose impact threatens to implode me, I race to a sunset, allowing, begging, for its humble grandiosity to restore me to balance.
The sense of doom, or implosion at the affect of a seemingly overwhelming situation comes from the part of me wanting to exit… stage left – ultimately knowing I am no match for the delusions of my mind.
My mind’s inherent ferocity desires to take me to the fringes of my own longing, which is to grow bigger than I am. But I can only grow bigger than I am by being encased, cocooning the current version of myself, putting it gently to sleep, for the eventual moment of simultaneous death and transformation – a transformation of a new self, a death of an old.
People, things, landscape, and ideas have similar cycles, growing to a full potential, only to be submerged into a self inflicted willingness to allow that version to sunset, casting the day’s luminous, glorious self into a faded glory. And like each day’s morning, we are greeted by sun’s rise, to help us embrace each day’s newness.
Getting too attached to any one sense of self risks the unnecessary temptation to cling to its fleeting expression of itself; causing an alchemical interference between glory’s full expression and the observer it was meant for – you.
Time’s idea of full expression at times baffles me, particularly when a cycle of death and renewal is cased by a lingering, timeless, transformational moment. Time appears to be making a mockery of the onlooker, who dares to cast doubt and judgment.
If I’m in the right place, heart vibrantly open, mind expansive, and imagination dancing, those moments present themselves as beautiful potentiality, artistic in form; like the 1948 Ford pickup accompanying this blog.
It is rare to find a classic automobile in such a moment; more often they stand abandoned, resembling enough of their old self and the beauty they once were, than a state of transformation stemming from a chrysalis slumber.
This truck was ushered into the death and rebirth process by a ferocious fire that also took in its wake, the lives of nineteen firefighters.
The cycles of death and renewal, dying to the old in support of a new sense and expression of self, aren’t preceded by a tidy schedule, allowing for preparation; in fact, as far as I’m concerned, the unpredictable nature of these cycles is what separates it from any other ebb and flows of life.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” Ecclesiastes 3:1