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Reporter’s Notebook -- Young Chang

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Two days ago I saw the sun just falling behind the prettiest Pacific

Ocean I’ve ever seen.

It was stacked with pink and orange sweeps, as if eye shadowed for the

sky’s eye with the brow bone enhanced a sheer pink and the lower layers

bleeding into roses and finally a tacky orange.

It occurred to me, while beholding this amazing scene and trying to

drive at the same time, that I have my health. Most the people I love

have their health. Even most the people I don’t love have their health.

That’s pretty heavy stuff for one little moment. A moment following

zillions of confused recent moments.

It was a moment of clarity. And it was pretty.

I’ve been looking up lately and I think it’s done me some good. While

smoking, while driving (usually for refuge from the river of brake lights

before me), even while sitting on the couch closest to the window at home

-- I’ve been staring and thinking and getting cheesy.

I’m never like this. I never care about beautiful days or beautiful

sunsets or even starry nights.

Now, suddenly, I care. I think I know why -- a mixture of getting

older, being stressed, missing home -- and I hope my newfound

appreciation for nature doesn’t last too long.

It’s exhausting.

There was this other sky last month -- a sight that made me finally

understand what writer Jeanette Winterson meant by “pre-war sky” in one

of her books.

It was morning and the sky was newly washed and the clouds were

swollen with the previous day’s rain.

It looked, actually, like part of the opening credits for “The

Simpsons.” Life looked like a cartoon at that moment. All caricatured and

jolly and clearly outlined.

I remember telling my good friend about this sky. She said she’d seen

them -- had felt their impact on previous days and understood what I

meant. Most sweetly, she insisted it wasn’t cheesy to notice.

That was nice, sharing a moment with a friend.

As I write this column, there are no clouds outside. It’s the same,

unflawed blue for miles and miles until the furthest mile, where the sky

fades like sandblasteddenim.

My epiphany, on this day, is to stop being confused. To continue

rambling about skies and blues and clouds, and to stop fretting about the

big things in life and whether I’m right about what’s in fact big or

small and whether I’ll be regretful of what I’m doing now when I’m 40.

I’ve been wondering these un-graspable things lately. Been turning

questions in my head the way old Chinese men turn shiny silver worry

balls in their hands.

But I know I’ll never know (the answers to my unproductive questions,

that is). Or maybe I will, once I’m gray and wise.

Till then, guess I’ll turn to the skies.

* Young Chang writes features. She may be reached at (949) 574-4268 or

by e-mail at o7 young.chang@latimes.comf7 .

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