One evening, as we meandered, I recalled a conversation from earlier in the day. Someone was agitated by a decision that did not impact or involve them. My advice was simple. Not your circus, not your monkeys. It’s a Polish proverb that means if something is not your decision to make or situation to resolve, why invite yourself into it?

The dogs and I were returning from the outbuildings and approaching the practice fields when I noticed a car that wasn’t there a few minutes before. It was parked perpendicular to the road, facing the setting sun. Next to it was someone sitting in a folding chair, the kind you see parents perched in at soccer games. They were looking across the field at the sunset. The sun was already gone but there was a reddish-orange glow in its wake. Colorful. But nothing notable as far as sunsets go.

As we made our way back to the house, I wondered why they picked that spot. It didn’t look like an impulsive stop. They chose that little field, parked, unfolded the chair, and took a seat. You can find far more visually appealing backdrops for a sunset. Even here in the plains of the Midwest. Lakesides, wooded areas, graceful farmlands. Instead, the horizon they chose was a mixture of corn, trees, school buildings, utility lines, stadium lights, an interstate highway, a cell tower, and a manufacturing plant.

When we got home, I made sure the dogs had water, got myself a glass, and took my favorite seat on the deck. A padded wicker chair tucked in a corner. It's where I spend most summer evenings. I face an array of patio furniture, the trunk of the white birch the deck was built around, the back of the grill, the sliding glass door into the kitchen, and the window above the sink. If I look skyward, there are treetops and a sliver of sky. On a good night, I might see a star or two and the moon for a few minutes as it passes by. I’ve spent countless hours, an assortment of beverages in hand, cigar smoldering, staring at a spot on the tree trunk turning ideas and thoughts over in my mind.

From my chair, I continued to run scenarios through my head on why someone would pick such an unremarkable spot to watch the sun go down. Maybe they played under those lights and were remembering sporting days long past, or they had a son or daughter who played there. The high school might be their alma mater. They might be someone who worked at the plant, raised the tower, or built the school buildings. Years back, they may have wandered the same path we did, caught a memorable sunset, and wanted to return and relive the moment.

I stared at a gnarled spot on the tree trunk and turned the question over in my mind. And in the gritty surface of the white birch, I found the answer.

Someone once asked me why I didn’t move the chair to the other side of the deck. There I’d have a broader view of the trees and their full green leaves against the sky, instead of staring at bark, furniture, and the back of the house. I told them the view didn’t have to meet anyone’s aesthetic baseline. It only mattered how it looked to me. And I find it calming. I smiled as I recalled the conversation and realized the answer to the night’s question was there.

It wasn’t my moment. And it wasn’t my sunset. It belonged to whoever was seated in the chair. My opinion was just that. Mine.

The other day Ruby, Waylon, and I were out walking. We were on the access road, near the fields, and I stopped and looked to the sunset. There wasn't much to it. Just a hazy glow behind the utility lines, stadium lights, school buildings, the cell tower, highway, and the manufacturing plant.

And I was reminded, even if we’re all looking at the same thing, each of us has a different view.