Want to relieve stress? Watch a sunset

A published article about how to deal with stress gives a lot of pointers. One that caught my attention is, watch a sunset. I agree.

We are coming from the season of beautiful sunsets. It is not just that the leaves are off and we can see better; winter sunsets are altogether different. More streaks of color. More patterns, as in a slow-motion kaleidoscope. Red turns to gold. Blue turns to purple. Green runs the gamut of all its shades. When you begin to see that thin layer of light green just above the horizon, that means that winter is on its way.

I have watched sunsets from various points. Straight through a west window is best for me. The stunning colors, seeming to arise out of the Mount Auburn hills, ripple and dance. That's because the glass pane in the window is old, has ripples of its own. It came that way from the factory.

I have watched from downstairs as the sun sank into the silhouetted trees, then climbed the stairs to see it go down again. A bit of agility required here.

Just last week, on a dismal, wet day, I entered an office and didn't come out until deep dusk. To my surprise there was a glorious sunset, almost like an exploding fire bomb (current circumstances affect similes), pushing the gray threatening clouds eastward. Everything westward was bright red-gold. One or more jets had been traversing the sky, leaving golden pencil stripes intersecting each other as if some celestial teacher was demonstrating acute and obtuse angles.

A long time ago one of the community's little ones, sitting in the porch swing with me, watching a sunset, said, "Who paints the sunset?"

I mucked around in my mind, trying to come up with some understandable explanation of temperatures, dust particles, sun slant and whatever other atmospheric dynamics I didn't know a thing about.

After what I realized was too much time elapsing, as though a parting sunbeam had struck my brain, I said, "God does, honey."

She smiled in acceptance and asked, "He paints the leaves and grass and flowers too?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Does he paint me too?" Her eyes were bright and, perhaps, a little mischievous.

"He paints everything. Inside and out," I summed up.

"He must have gallons of paint."

"Millions!"

Feeling on sure hyperbolic ground here, I continued. "He paints little doors in your eyes so that you can see. He paints little openings in your brain so you can think. He paints a little red door in your heart so that you can like things, love people. If you slam this little door shut you end up being very unhappy."

We continued to watch the sunset, red-gold turning to roseate, lavender to purple.

"Which color of red does he use?" she asked.

"Which one do you like best?"

We watched a while longer until she exclaimed, "That one!" She pointed her finger quickly, knowing it wouldn't stay that shade very long.

"I think that is the very one he uses for you."

Soon it was dark and she had to go home. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen.

A few days later I stepped out to the swing and found a childish drawing in the seat. It was of a little girl. Instead of round eyes in her face, there were little doors!

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.