sharing the sun

I couldn’t have imagined a sky without the sun until this year. In late summer, our biggest, brightest, burning star turned pink or disappeared altogether behind thick haze. I remember standing in a grocery store parking lot in the late afternoon staring right at it - the sun was the color of Bubblicious gum. It looked like a place unicorns would live and I was mesmerized. It was real-life magical fantasy, and real-life chilling at the same time.

I saw pictures of California and Oregon skies that looked apocalyptic with their burnt orange clouds and brown fog. I have friends who were stuck living beneath those skies for days. I went running one afternoon simply because I realized there could come a day when I wouldn’t be able to see the sun - that it wouldn’t be my choice, and there wouldn’t be a timeline for the blue skies to return. I went running because I want the sun’s warmth on my shoulders for as many days as possible.

It’s a curious thing to take for granted the very sky above us - assuming it will always be blue and storms will never last long. How lucky we’ve been if we could never imagine an existence without it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how the sky connects all of us - when fires burn in California, the entire West experiences some of the effects when we step outside and can’t see the other side of town, and mountains in the distance look like they’re hiding behind a curtain.

In addition to taking the sun for granted, I’ve also been thinking of the night sky. My mom came to visit in September and said she’d like to see the stars one night. The skies in Utah had been filled with smoke that drifted from the coast and she hadn’t been able to see any stars for days. While she was here in Albuquerque, we kept forgetting to look. Our days were spent on bike trails and in the mountains and they were beautiful! The sun was definitely our friend those days as it reflected on the Rio Grande, peeked through vibrant red and orange leaves, and created lens flares in our photos.

By nighttime, we were ready to curl up on couches, eat ice cream and watch movies. It wasn’t until after she left that I remembered we never looked at the stars together. I went out in the backyard the night she boarded her plane back to Utah and looked at the moon, Jupiter and Saturn. They’ve all been circling the night skies in a cluster where we live for more than a month. I noticed other stars, too, snapped a photo on my phone, and sent it her way. Every time I see stars now, I think of her and other moments this year when I got to be with people I love. Like the sun, I’m trying not to assume they will always be here. I want to truly see them and experience life with them until they are gone.

As I’ve been running around my neighborhood the last few weeks, these thoughts circle my brain. For me, running allows my head to process things in non-linear ways. The thoughts come and go, flowing through me and leaving. Recently, as my feet beat down on dirt paths near my home, I remembered that as a child, I used to sing quietly in the backseat of cars, thinking no one was listening. My favorite song for a long time was “Somewhere Out There” from the movie “An American Tale.” Two child mice since the song as a duet while they look at the moon from separate locations. The lyrics hit me right in the center again - it was part nostalgia and part new.

“Even though I know how very far apart we are,
it helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star.
And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,
it helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky -
Somewhere out there, if love can see us through,
then we'll be together somewhere out there,
out where dreams come true.”

This year has separated so many of us for long periods of time, but I’m reminded that we’re all sharing the same sky, sun, moon and stars. I hope to never forget again.