The Funny Thing About Sunset

The view from my dining room has gotta be one of the more spectacular views you're going to find in my part of LA.  Loyola Marymount sits on a bluff that overlooks the Pacific, and our little community sits right on that bluff, our dining room facing out toward that amazing vista.

Which means, as we eat the sun sets right in front of us.   Sometimes it slips right down below the horizon, like it's late for a date.  Other times it's almost like as though it pauses, like a queen somewhat haughtily accepting her due approbation before slowly descending below.

But each night as it first hits the water, its redness burning like fire on the surface, all eyes in our dining room turn that way.  The room grows quiet, and stays that way until the moment finally... completely... passes.

When you've lived in a place a while, your attention to the details around you can easily begin to wane.  The amazing becomes the familiar,  the familiar the ho-hum, the ho-hum the-might-as-well-be-invisible.

But at my house, not the sunset.  Each night we mark its passing in this spontaneous and sort of sacred way.