"EL SOL"

     Have you ever wondered what it is about sunrise and sunset that makes us stop and gaze, stop and feel not quite so civilized, somehow less important than when we had control over something? I was up early, on the road just as the sky went gray in the east.  On the interstate, tail lights ahead of me were obscured in the glare of all the head lights coming at us on the other side. To the left of those head lights, just off the highway, 80’ to 100’ trees were thick against the horizon. Occasionally, when the trees were not so tightly set, there was a flash of orange/red and it was gone; after all, I was stretching the speed limit just to keep up and all I got was a glimpse. 

     So you pay attention to the driving: you have to do that or you get too close to the semi squeezing on your left or you don’t notice brake lights flashing, several cars ahead. You drive. People all around me have made a conscious decision to bypass New Orleans; stay north of Lake Pontchartrain on their way to Mobile or maybe Tallahassee. I’d be getting off soon, turning north. I stay in the truck’s shadow for what seems like an eternity. I wonder, what happened to the guys up in the fast lane; I don’t need a semi with an attitude just two feet off my shoulder. Somebody get out of this guy’s way. At least the day was dry; no spray coming up off tires and no thump-t-thump of wipers, smearing the glass because nothing would have slowed them down. We would still be racing up the road and I’d have done better to sleep in, to go later in the day. Traffic eased and the truck rolled on, leaving me with space, nobody in the fast lane. I glanced across the median and the sun was topping the trees. Three quarters of “El Sol” was nested on top of those dense treetops. In just a mile, another minute, I’d be able to see a clear, defined space between sun and trees and my day would be delivered. 

     When the air is dry, low humidity, the sun turns bright, white/yellow, shortly after it clears the horizon and you can’t look right at it. On humid days, with haze up high and fog hanging on the bayous, the sun comes up wearing a red/orange shirt and you can gaze right at it for as long as you like, the same with sunset. Just a few weeks ago I was on the beach, Lake Michigan, for sundown. One of my favorite places, I have lots of photos from there but I keep going back. The day was windy and clear, high pressure, high sky. I was hoping for some haze and an orange sunset but it would be white/yellow, right up to the last few minutes. I waited, like waiting on water to boil, for the sun to sink down and nest behind or beside the light house. My patience paid off. The sun turned orange and the sky behind it went red. The edge between them was sharp and clean. I got several good shots in those last minutes, then I let the camera hang on its strap and just watched El Sol sink into the lake. 

     Driving east on Interstate 12 it came to me and it was easy: everything should be that easy. I know why we stop and gaze, stop and feel small; why the sun on the horizon moves us like it does. It's then, for just a few short minutes: if you like the metaphor, we can stare straight into the eye of God. We've been conditioned to look down or away for fear of burning our eyes. Something primal about it, mysterious yet comforting. The fact that someone is waiting for you to call or come through the door is irrelevant. Sun rise, sun set; we really do take it for granted. El Sol neither rises nor sets, it just hangs out there like it has for billions of years. It’s people who go in circles, on a planet that revolves and rotates in circles. We study the science and master the math but you don’t have to be educated or even smart to wait patiently with the naked eye for the horizon and the sun to close the gap. Then: there it is and there you are.