Chasing Sunsets with Michelle Dowd

Here’s a special guest post by my friend Michelle.

Michelle Dowd is a contributor to The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, TIME magazine, Alpinist, The LA Review of Books, LA Parent Mag, and other national publications. She was raised on a mountain in the Angeles National Forest where she learned to navigate by the stars and forage for edible plants. Her memoir, Forager: Field Notes on Surviving a Family Cult, showcases her life growing up on an isolated mountain in California as part of an apocalyptic cult, and how she found her way out of poverty and illness by drawing on the gifts of the wilderness.

Subscribe to Michelle’s Substack: mdowd@substack.com

Chasing Sunsets

by Michelle Dowd

During the months my mother lay dying, I started chasing sunsets, the way I used to chase waterfalls. At the first sign of the waning light, I would bolt out of the house to catch the color, reaching for radiance like an athlete striving for a win.

Later, as I was cleaning up my mother’s body, and then later, her belongings, and even later, while I sat with my father in his grief, helping him move into a senior residence, devoid of her remnants, I had less compulsion for color. In those gray days, I would force myself to go out in the evenings for a moment of air, and I would look for my mother’s favorite birds, hoping to recognize her spirit in one of them. But all I could see was the dying light.

So I made a ritual of that. I made a ritual of going out to watch the dying of the light. I didn’t know what I wanted, or who I wanted to spend time with, so I just showed up, in all my beautiful mess, and connected with what the sinking sun had to offer. 

Connecting to nature connected me to myself. Sitting with sunset after sunset, evening upon evening, taught me to recognize the wonder of transformation, and showed me the road to recovery.

In time, this practice taught me that I didn’t need to chase at all. When I showed up faithfully, allowing whatever else that came along to show up too, I let it all be, as it was. Eventually, I found that whatever showed up was enough, and I began to accept whatever form it took, and learned to love it. 

Industrialized cultures separate and disconnect us from the natural world. We have paved over the landscape, asphalted our roads, chased away our wildlife, and landscaped our housing communities and public parks.

But nature renews itself in cycles. As do we.

Any encounter with the natural world, whether walking on the grass barefoot, watering a plant, or hugging a tree, offers an unspoken invitation to connect with a vastness that surpasses our identity as an individual. 

And this connection can be found in any facet of the natural world. 

When I was in my twenties, my lover and I would plan weekend hiking trips centered around cold, cascading water, and we would challenge each other to see who could hold their head under the longest. We packed fancy gear and nutritious foods, scaled mountains and rocks, and scheduled our adventures around rainfall.

I used to chase my mother’s love like I chased waterfalls. It took a lot of energy, and when I would finally achieve her attention, it was often harsh. Sunsets have taught me love is not a feeling, a state, or a peak experience, but presence itself. 

We are made for recovery. 

They say, when the student is ready, the teacher will come. Here are some of the lessons my daily practice of watching sunsets has taught me:

• There is no perfect sunset. Let go of perfection and embrace the mess. 

• Set aside time for beauty.

• Remember to play. 

• Let go of expectations. No sunset is like any other. You can’t show up for a sunset hoping for a replica of the one before.

• Days are short. Celebrate what is.

We can’t connect with others when we’re disconnected from ourselves, but we can still connect with nature. Watching the setting of the sun, and sitting with the transformation of day to night produces a feeling of smallness, and of awe.

I spent years trying to convince my mother to see me and love me for who I am. What I couldn’t see or fully accept, was that she was entirely who she was, and accepting her was a part of accepting myself. Sunsets have shown me that what she gave me was enough.

I am deeply grateful for the memories of waterfalls, but sunsets are a sustainable love affair. When I look at sunsets, I see my time on earth as a gift. Even on cloudy days, when the sun isn’t visible, I know she’s there, burning bright behind the covers, setting beyond my vision.

I’ll go out to watch the sunset this evening. I don’t know what colors will appear, whether they will be soft or vibrant, alert or diffused, but as I sit and wait, I’m fully prepared to be surprised.