Once, after a deep meditation, I emerged from the sauna as the sun dipped below the horizon. Strapping on my skis, I glided out into an open field. As I looked up, the sky revealed a profound duality: to one side, the deep, dark blues of encroaching night, and to the other, the fading oranges of a sun that had just set. In that moment, it dawned on me: the full spectrum of the rainbow was stretched from West to East across the sky, painted by the fleeting light.
Standing there, I had an overwhelming realization—not of where I was geographically, but where I was in time. From the perspective of space, I stood on the very line where day meets night, a transient, magical region painted by a celestial hand. This eternal curtain, gliding across our Earth has no regard for boundaries as it heralds the dawn ahead and hushes the world into night behind it.
The clouds, scattered by the fading light, refracted an otherworldly palette, as if painted by an artist unbound by rules. They transformed the sky into a dreamscape of Impressionistic hues—a fleeting masterpiece. These ephemeral moments, like brushstrokes on a celestial canvas, embody the impermanence of beauty and time.
Moralists will lecture me for having my head in the clouds, for not engaging the harsh realities of this world. So what? I am grateful to the poets for forging their works, if not them then whom? If we become saturated with the cruelties of this world to the point of cynicism, whom among us will cultivate the art of appreciating the art of gratitude?
