I haven’t missed my third-floor perch until today.
At mid-afternoon, when the rain had stopped and the sun had made its brief appearance, then fled, I saw glimpses of the brooding sky between bare tree limbs. I longed to see that winter sky from my third-floor condo, which had 16 feet of windows looking out onto a continuously changing sky. Then, just at sundown, I saw splashes of deep vermilion sweeping toward the horizon and I knew I was missing a magnificent sunset.
I have a sky fetish; have had since I was a kid and believed somehow that sunsets were God showing his face in a world where no other sign could be seen.
So for a moment today I felt an ache, that greedy little human need to possess today’s gloomy sky and the delirious sunset that followed it.
But, really, I did better than see those faces of the sky. I felt them both in my bones and in my spirit, maybe more strongly than if I could have dropped in whenever I felt the urge between stretches at my desk. From this vantage point, at ground level surrounded by towering trees, I only get glimpses if I’m fully present in those moments when something magnificent shows its face.