The tower and themany faces of the Sun

The Tower and the Many Faces of the Sun

by Young B. Lee

On Cadillac Mountain, in the state of Maine, people gather before dawn to witness the first sunrise on the American continent. Each year, crowds climb the mountain, waiting in silence for that moment when light breaks over the horizon.

I do not go there.

Instead, I stand by the window of my small room in a fourteen-story tower in Laguna Woods, California, and watch the sun rise from there.

The sunrise here is neither grand nor dramatic. No crowds gather. No one applauds its arrival. And yet, to me, it carries a quiet power — a life-giving presence that fills the day before it even begins.

Perhaps the difference lies in distance.

From Cadillac Mountain, the sun rises far away, over the distant horizon of the sea. From my window, it emerges just beyond a nearby ridge, close enough to feel almost within reach.

A distant sunrise changes little from one day to the next.
A near sunrise is never the same.

Each morning, I notice small differences — in color, in light, in movement. And through them, something in me is renewed.

My room is on the fifth floor, with a wall of glass that opens to a small forest. Trees rise and gather into a gentle ridge. Sometimes I forget I am in a city. The wind moves through the leaves, and the world grows quiet.

Then comes the hour before dawn.

Night withdraws slowly. The stillness is not empty; it feels like preparation — as though the world itself is holding its breath.

Streetlights fade. Clouds shift over the ridge. What first appeared as dark masses begin to take shape, each revealing a different face. The sky spreads into shades of pale gray and deep blue.

This happens every day. And yet, never the same way twice.

That is why I do not grow tired of it.
I live a different morning each day.

Soon, the eastern sky turns red.
And then, the sun appears.

As its round edge slowly rises, I am reminded of a chick breaking through its shell — life emerging from darkness into the open world.

The light begins as red, then turns brilliant white. It enters my room without a sound, filling my study. It speaks no words, yet says everything.

In that moment, I feel a peace I cannot explain.

The sun is the same, and yet each morning it is born with a different face.

One day it appears strong, surrounded by intense orange clouds, like a bull full of energy and force.
Another day, it hides behind dark clouds, revealing only a faint glow — like a shy village girl reluctant to be seen.

I have come to believe this:

The sun is one, but its expressions are many.

After it rises fully, the sky becomes another world. Black birds cross the air above the trees, tracing invisible lines. If the blue sky is masculine, perhaps the white clouds are feminine. When sunlight embraces them both, the world becomes a kind of quiet paradise.

I watch for a long time.

The sun has always been there. Long before memory, it has pushed back darkness and opened each day. It gives warmth to all life without asking for anything in return.

It never announces itself.
It never boasts.

There is something deeply humbling in such silent devotion.

I no longer travel far.
I no longer walk great distances.

And yet, through this small window, I meet the world anew each morning.

And I have come to understand:

Life is not measured by how wide it stretches,
but by how deeply it is lived.

From this tower in Laguna Woods,
I continue to see the many faces of the sun.

629 words