Round and round they sped. . . .
Jon Krakauer had a different perspective, unanchored in the futile exercise of chasing a single horizon: he wrote, “[t]he joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences,” and concluded “there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun.”
Contemplating horizons seems to be yet another one of those half-empty or full experiences.
Dublin’s pale pastel horizons were a beautiful seamless whole of heaven and earth, but equal beauty can be found in the bright divide.
A horizon may be marked by a narrow strip of rock where we once took our toddlers hand-in-hand and their colorful canvas sneakers’ rubber soles squeaked as seagulls trilled and swooped.
Another horizon is demarcated by autumn hues, armies of towering stalks so dry they clatter like thin tin in October wind. Gentle hills rest where the earth meets the sky. We would climb there after school when the children were younger, swishing our feet through crunching fallen leaves.
A fall sun would plummet behind the treeline horizon of farmland where horses and cows clustered on grass fields. We would head home past them to read favorite bedtime stories to our sons and daughters–tales of children and farm animals and magical creatures, of the Stinky Cheese Man, Noisy Nora, Squids who will be Squids and Max and his Millions. “One more story,” our children would ask, again and again.
Sometimes the horizon’s silhouettes are cast in black by the setting sun’s blinding rim. On those nights, it seems that although the earth is beneath our feet, the rest falls away just beyond the horizon–which is, after all, “nothing save the limit of our sight.”