One day, about 6 months ago, I was driving up the coast road that runs parallel to Seven Mile Beach, and the sun was setting behind the ocean in a huge explosion of pink and coral and amber light. I was listening to Johnny Nash on the stereo in my newly purchased car, and everything about the moment was quite suddenly overpoweringly blissful. So I shrieked, out loud; I cheered, quite vocally and finished with a heartfelt Whooooooop! of sheer joy. A couple of tourists shared my release of emotion, as they were walking quite close by along the roadside and my windows were wide open. I may have startled them a little, but I think they enjoyed it too.
I remember thinking, Wow, I live here? This island of white sand and palms, where the sun rises and sets each day like a golden God, over waters so dazzling that they seem painted on. I live here!
Of course I have driven that same road at sunset many, many times since then, but I have not screamed with bliss again, the way I did that first time. Is that what happens? Can we only experience the deepest intensity of feeling the very first time, and each subsequent time, it is a more diluted experience?
I vow to cheer at The Sun, the very next time I see him.
