A Love Letter to the Sun Part II
Selin Hos ’25 reflects on her love for the sun as the weather gets warmer and campus eagerly awaits its return.
Where has the time gone? The weeks have bled into one another and suddenly it’s May. It was just a year ago that I was writing my first love letter to you. I remember just how much I missed you that first winter — how much joy I felt at your return. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the magic that accompanied your return, or the way the campus and everyone on it seemed to spring forth with life and vivacity. I saw the way you brought back smiles to faces who hadn’t cracked one in months, or how the trees began to bud and bring forth a new season of New Hampshire greenery.
Needless to say, my friends and I have been eagerly awaiting your return. I’m not sure we could have handled many more weeks of dreary, relentless drizzle for much longer. Personally, I was beginning to get a little worried that you wouldn’t show this year — that despite all of the hardships that we’ve endured this past winter we had been sentenced to a life of bleak, grey drizzle for the rest of our lives.
I think a part of me truly believed in this condemnation, too. It’s crazy the delusions one can begin to entertain after two weeks of straight rain. It goes without saying that we’ve missed you dear Sun. We’ve missed you a lot. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m always grateful for your presence, but I also wish that you would stay longer when you do. I love you. But you know that already. I spend most of my time during the fall and winter lamenting your absence, which is just to say that I miss you dearly when you’re away. Your love letter from last year was rather well received, and I don’t know of a single person who doesn’t miss you when you are gone.
I always just seem to underestimate the role that you play in my life. Having grown up in Southwest Florida, I never felt a particular longing for you like I do now — you were always just there. It’s funny, I know that they say that dogs are a man’s best friend, but I almost wonder if I could say that about you. Perhaps the Sun is just a girl’s best friend. I can certainly say that you, my dear Sun, were my best friend for the first 18 years of my life. You were a companion in every sense of the word, watching over me from infancy to adulthood, and all of the beautiful chaos that occurred in between.
I’ve been thinking about that lately — about the way you’ve served as a constant in the lives of every human being that has ever lived. I wonder what you’ve been privy to in your special role as the Sun. How much could you possibly know? Whose secrets have you heard? What atrocities have you beamed over? And to think that you’ve spent eons watching as we fumble through our lives — to think that you’ll spend eons more. How could you possibly stomach it, staying passive as we’ve damaged, pilfered, murdered and polluted the world around us? How do you continue to share your warmth with us knowing that we do these things still?
If I had to guess, it’s because of the fact that for as much as you’ve seen us destroy, you’ve also watched us create. You’ve watched us love. You’ve seen the good in humanity just as much as you’ve seen the evil. And perhaps it has been interesting for you to watch as the tragedies and horrors play out alongside all of the comedies and romances. You must really have a complete view of the world.
And you aren’t without your own faults too — the way you bubble and flare. I may miss you, but I certainly never miss the sunburns I get in your presence. It’s funny, you would think that I would be immune by now. I would have liked to think that 18 years spent under a constant of 11 on the UV index would render me invincible to your vengeful rays. But alas, I still get burnt to a crisp when you’re around. It’s funny how often we fall deeply in love with what will inevitably hurt us.
For loving you is truly a double edged sword, Sun. I cherish you. I put you on the highest of pedestals, count down the days until your return and collapse in utter devastation upon your departure. But I can’t help but wonder if that is the true nature of love. I’ve understood more this past year than ever before that to love is to lose — for whatever, and whoever, you love in this world is subject to the same forces of entropy that seem to govern our lives. Things change. By now that much is obvious. Things change and we react accordingly. Though, you knew this already — you must have gleaned at least this much from your old age.
And I suppose maybe that is what it means to love you, my dearest Sun. Perhaps the true act of loving is in doing so with the knowledge that it is inevitable that you get burned in the process. Perhaps in order to love with our whole heart we must do so despite it all. Perhaps we must all continue to love, truly and deeply ... despite, despite, despite.