Every evening, I watch the sun go down.
Ostensibly.
For it is true that I’m generally sitting at my dining room table at that hour. It is true that I am facing west. And it is even true that I am at a high enough of a vantage point to readily watch the sun disappear beyond the horizon.
But for all those benefits, there is one obstacle — one thing keeping me from watching the western skies turn into a brilliant array of faded light.
That obstacle is a wall.
The western wall of my dining room is well decorated — with mementos, a grad school diploma and a photo of my grandfather’s training unit in the United States Navy. But that wall and those mementos form a venerable cliff blocking the view of anything behind it.
Of course, this wall is not the enemy. There are more than a dozen other walls beyond it before you get to the western face of my building. And even if I lived in the westernmost unit, the next building over would still block the view of anything else.
Yes, it seems like an at-home view of the sunset is out of the question — for myself and for all my neighbors.
And so, as the afternoon fades and the twilight sets in, I am forced to choose. Go somewhere else to catch the sunset, or simply imagine its presence beyond my line of sight.
All too often, I go for that second option.
Watching the sun set is not an essential part of life.
It pales in comparison to our needs for food, shelter and communal belonging.
And yet, many are enthralled by this experience. Just as many others are transfixed by the view of constellations in the clear night sky.
Observing such majesty with our own eyes reminds us of the vastness of the universe. And of just how small we are in comparison.
It is sobering in the best possible way. For it makes us aware of another concept — that of the importance of place.
This revelation is critical.
For what we do in life matters. Who we build that life with matters. But where we build that life also matters.
Such decisions are out of our hands initially. We grow up where we grow up — the choice of our parents, our guardians or circumstance. We don’t have much say in the matter.
But once we reach adulthood, we get to choose where we pitch our tent. We have some semblance of our own destiny — at least when geography is involved.
There is power in this version of independence. But only if we’re savvy enough to recognize it.
Something strange has happened recently.
With a deadly pandemic raging, much of the world has shut down. Entire countries have gone into quarantine for months at a time. And even in the United States — a nation without a federal lockdown — many people have limited their travel to a 10 mile radius of their homes.
These changes have had profound impacts on many aspects of our lives. One of those has been our understanding of the concept of place.
What was once an oversight is now facing a reckoning. For regardless how we normally feel about our home, we’ve been spending more time in it than usual. And that means we’re scrutinizing it more than ever before.
I consider myself fortunate in this endeavor. I might not have a sunset view, but I have a home I love — one that’s quiet and serene. The ability to sit on my patio, watching the wind blow through the trees and hearing the birds chirp, is an absolute godsend.
Others have not been so lucky.
Perhaps their home was an afterthought. Most of their time was spent out in the world of social interaction. Their house or apartment was simply a place to sleep and change clothes.
Perhaps other circumstances — job opportunities, financial situations or family concerns — had forced them to live in a place they didn’t desire to. Home wasn’t an exercise in self-expression. It was a symbol of their obligation.
In either case, the abrupt change to the world as we knew it must have been jarring. In an instant, their communities were forcibly separated, leaving them confined to a location they were none too fond of.
Yet, whether we love our home base or we loathe it, we now have no choice but to come to terms with it. For the world of whizzing distractions is gone for the foreseeable future. And so, there are no more convenient excuses for us to ignore what’s right in front of our nose.
At the start of the year, I made a pledge. I would walk or run at least a mile every single day. In sunshine and rain, bitter cold and searing heat, I would take the time to step out into the elements.
This was initially a ploy to improve my health. I had all too often wavered between times of intense workouts and sedentary days on the couch. I needed to commit to a plan that would keep me active.
The onset of a global pandemic threw a wrench into this plan. Suddenly, I had to change the way I strolled about in order to avoid getting sick.
But once I got used to wearing a mask and evading other people on the sidewalk, I realized how precious this ritual had become.
Not only did it get me out of my home — often for the only time all day — but it also allowed me to discover the little things that were all around me. The pattern of the stones on a retaining wall. The scurrying of rabbits and squirrels. The buzzing of high tension wires overhead.
None of these details were particularly picturesque or awe-inspiring. That’s probably why I ignored them in the first place. But now that I wasn’t shuffling around town for work, school or leisure — now that I was confined to these short forays in my neighborhood — I found a strange sense of identity within them.
These were the hallmarks of my corner of the world. They provided the backdrop to my vantage point of the world.
These sights, these sounds — they were my version of place. They were integral to my where.
I firmly believe that all of us can build this kind of connection with our surroundings. And indeed, that we need to.
For the more we stare at the horizon, the more we lose sight of what’s nearby. The more we yearn for liberation, the more we feel the walls closing in.
This is all bad enough in small doses. But over a long enough time horizon, it can be downright catastrophic.
Still, it doesn’t have to be this way.
Our mind can provide us salvation from this maelstrom. A change in our perspective can be the antidote to our despair.
And it all starts by recognizing the importance of place. Of fully understanding our whereabouts and making peace with them.
So, as we forge forward, let’s not neglect all that surrounds us. Let’s embrace it instead, with an open mind and an open heart.
For whether it’s beautiful or it’s mundane, our setting — our place — matters in our story. Don’t let it get erased.