Sunset at Wellington Point
In March, walking back from Wellington Point after watching the sunset, the sky grew darker and darker. I unlocked my phone and listened to hymns. As I listened, tears poured down like rain. He was driving, saying nothing, and I hid in the darkness. It often happens like this—my emotions well up because of many subtle things, and I feel embarrassed to be crying uncontrollably. He pretends nothing has happened, quietly by my side, without even a gesture, sparing me from embarrassment and from sinking into the sadness that my own imagination conjures.
That day, I wept for human helplessness, wept for not knowing the Lord’s will, wept for the increasingly uncontrollable pandemic, wept for the many who had died and were dying from illness, wept for how everything had spiraled out of control.
When we got home, I had cried enough. I ate, showered, and went to sleep.
The next day, life went on.
Since February, we haven’t been able to travel far. On weekends when we have time, we drive thirty kilometers to Wellington Point in the afternoon. If the weather is decent and we can see a beautiful sunset, I thank the Lord, the Creator of all things, again and again in my heart for granting us this. There are also days with bad weather—cloudy skies with neither sunset nor afterglow, or even a sudden downpour. Yet I am still grateful, grateful that we can go there safely and return safely, grateful that we have so much leisurely time to accompany each other without growing weary or disdainful of one another.
The last time we went out, layers of clouds piled up in the sky, with a band of ink-black clouds on the horizon. He said, 'It might rain today. Do you still want to go?' I said, 'Yes, why not? Rain doesn’t matter—we can listen to it!'
There were many more people at the beach than in March or April. The pandemic seemed to be fading but not completely over; within the state, restrictions were slowly being lifted. Other things were still stirring restlessly. Those who enjoy commenting on current events always chat about them; those who don’t, basically stay out of it. And life continues, unhurriedly, as before. When I see strangers, we still greet each other. Though I’ve been abroad for a few years, I still act like it’s my first day—lowering my head when I see someone, afraid to meet their eyes. When I can’t avoid it and have to greet them, even that basic 'How ya going!' comes out shyly in every exchange. If I can get away with a brief 'Hi' or 'Good,' I never reply with a longer phrase. The deep introversion within me is hard to change.
When we arrived, rain began to fall. Luckily, it was only a short shower. Then the thick clouds parted a little. We walked along the seaside trail. The ground was a bit damp, the wind gentle. Wearing a thin sweater, I felt a slight chill. Late autumn had arrived. The trees stayed green, neither yellowing nor shedding leaves—the typical changelessness of the tropics. We walked a while, stopped, watched little crabs scuttling over the rocks, and some small snails clinging to the stones, not knowing if they were alive or dead. I imagined what they would be like when the next tide rose—perhaps the natural cycle of life.
We checked the time. It was sunset hour. We walked back to a spot where we could see the sun go down. Finding a rock to sit on, I held up my phone to capture the scene. People standing on the shore were also holding phones or cameras. Those walking along the beach wading through the water, some with dogs splashing, covered in sand and water, chasing the last light of the day—they were vividly alive, frolicking freely, bouncing joyfully.
If the light was especially beautiful and the colors especially brilliant, my brother would always say, 'Too bad I didn’t bring my camera.' Before, I would echo, 'Yeah, what a shame!' Later, I learned to purse my lips dismissively and add a single word: 'Lazy!'
People who are emotional and sensitive often feel at a loss when many things happen suddenly. So through the whole of February, March, and April, I was in a daze—couldn’t eat well, couldn’t sleep well, and sometimes suddenly lost control of my emotions. People around me would be even more bewildered and ask, 'Our situation isn’t that serious, is it? What’s going on with you?' I would cry with snot bubbles, voicing worries I couldn’t even describe properly. Usually, that earned me an eye-roll: 'Alarmist!'
This year has truly been long—so long that half of it is almost over, yet most people’s lives are still half-stalled or stuck. Life has been quietly pressed into a pause by an invisible hand, installed by who knows who. But not everyone has paused. Some are still moving forward, burdened either voluntarily or involuntarily. Those who have stopped are anxious; those who move forward are also anxious.
All this will eventually pass. Will, eventually, pass!
Like the setting sun: after it goes down, tomorrow, it will rise again.
