I had lived for seven years in a Pennsylvania valley before I moved here to east central Illinois in 1997. In those seven years I remember watching a sunset once: I was somewhere near the mall at a point high enough that I could see the sun go down behind the mountains. I don't know if I could have seen the sunrise; besides, I don't think I woke up early enough very often.
When I moved here for my first (and current) full-time faculty job, I lived in a townhouse that had windows facing east and west. I lived on the southern edge of town, and from the window of my second-floor study, I would watch the sun rise across a cornfield as I got ready for my long day of teaching.
Watching the sun come up in that big sky, I felt like a child who had recently been swaddled but was now all limbs. I missed the embrace of the mountains and felt exposed on this flatland.
As the years passed, my relationship with the big sky changed. I became used to the openness and began to think of the sky with its changing clouds and colors as the mountains of the Midwest: a formation of white clouds in the winter might look like snowcapped mountains. The sunsets I often watch as I leave work are part of the familiar delight of the end of the day.
Earlier this month, on my first day back after the winter break, I noticed the brilliant sunset once again and had to stop and take photos as I left the campus. The campus and the landscape are now home to me.
