It’s Always Sunny in Denver

According to locals, Denver’s best asset is its sun. “It shines more than three hundred days a year,” they’d tell me. “More than San Diego, more than Honolulu.” Outside, a blizzard whirled past the windows as they first told me this, and I doubted them.

I grew up believing that monotony was the adverse affect of constant sun, and that we who enjoyed four seasons only did so because of snow and rain and overcast skies. Storms made for excitement; persisting through dark afternoons and snowy springs made for incurable gratitude. Without appreciating how awful life was without sun, I could never appreciate how glittering life was with it.

I grew up wary of ever-sunny paths, of their blandness, of their emptiness. Traveling shiny avenues flanked by palm trees seemed appealing until compared to the complexity of the challenging path, one requiring perseverance and resilience, one that leaves you interesting and changed. Those on the path flanked by ice and fog are stronger for keeping alive the dimming optimism through the darkest spots.

So I keep doubting – while secretly believing in – this place in the snowy Rockies, whose winters don’t feel like solitary confinement and whose summers are as reliably bright as a Pacific island. Could I really wake up most mornings greeted by warmth, no matter how cold outside? In that same day, could I also say goodnight to the sun, gracefully sliding behind the mountains, casting calm shadows through trees full of leaves or bare with snow? Could I get used to this life, soon blind to how safe and predictable my life has become?

Already I am divided between cynicism and unconditional optimism. I grew up where the sun didn’t always stay long enough to shine when I most needed it – that canoe trip, that day at Lake Michigan, Fourth of July fireworks. I learned to expect the disappointment of a rained-out afternoon, knowing that a day beginning with sun didn’t always end with it.

In Denver I wonder if the sun is a curse. Maybe one day the sun won’t shine here, and Denverites will look back and regret those wasted moments indoors. Maybe Denver’s four seasons are bland, their vibrancy having faded like a poster on a sunny wall. I worry about some Pleasantville nightmare, where dark secrets fester in the sun’s shadows, growing increasingly lethal for every day they go without exposure.

And yet, every day feels like a celebration, equally perfect for outdoor weddings and pool parties; for long walks and bike rides; for baseball games and pickup games. Everything seems possible in the light. I don’t feel the burden of overpowering the constant darkness. It’s hard to hate life when there’s no doubt of the sun’s imminent and lovely return. How can my worries not slip away with the breeze that carries through the budding trees? How can trouble seem close with clear skies that stretch to infinity?

I look back and see the highlights of my Chicago life overshadowed by a series of disappointments that left me kicking and screaming for a brighter future. So I drop the skepticism and bask in the sun, looking forward to the golden sun and blue skies that seem to promise just that.