CHICAGO 360: THE LOVERS, THE DREAMERS, & ME

Looking south from "Big John" across the city of Chicago on a brisk fall day.

I could see order where there was once chaos, mystery where by day innocuous buildings had stood shoulder to shoulder stoically harboring humanity.  
 
Trails of bright light stretched for miles and miles, pulsating with the power and passion of almost three million people breathing life into the concrete jungle 94 stories below.
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There was truly no place in the world quite like Chicago’s John Handcock Observatory when the sun was setting on the Windy City, on the lovers, the dreamers, and me.     

Yes, I unabashedly admit to stealing that last phrase from a song Kermit the Frog made famous (with the help of songwriters Kenny Ascher and Paul Williams), The Rainbow Connection.  Perhaps you remember this stanza.   
 
What’s so amazing
That keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see
Someday we’ll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

Guess who took this selfie? Right, the one whose ear isn't chopped off. Sorry, Lynda.

There were no rainbows the evening my sister and I were swept off our feet courtesy of one of the fastest elevators in the world (it took less than 40 seconds to ascend 94 stories to the Handcock Observatory, 360 Chicago); but plenty of lovers and dreamers to go around.  

Get there early for a front row seat at sunset. We waited 30 minutes to get to the top.

Lovers and dreamers alike watched a rainbow of colors blaze across the horizon as night chased the sun.  Day turned to dusk; dusk gave way to darkness, followed by the most spectacular star gazing this side of Lake Michigan. 

A quarter of the residents in the Handcock building share this view every evening. I'm so jealous.

It was as if I’d never seen a sunset before, never seen Chicago at night.  Certainly, I’d never seen the sun set on the City by the Lake from a thousand feet above the planet. This was the city dressed to impress. The grime and crime, grit and spit had all taken a back seat to a million pinpoints of light in a luminous landscape stretching miles and miles north, south, east, and west.

Hi, Jimmy. I know you're out there, 40 miles to the west, wishing you were here.

I was dizzy with delight, on sensory overload running from one bank of windows to the next covering all 360 degrees of grandeur.   I felt flush with wonder, unable to look away as the night eclipsed the sun and lights began to blink into existence here, there, and everywhere; as streams of light began flowing through the narrow canyons below before flooding into the plains beyond. 
  
Lynda gave up trying to keep up with me and found a place to sit and watch both me and the city light up with wonder.  It suddenly occurred to me in the writing of this post weeks later that perhaps, for Lynda, the moment was just too much to take standing.  Tomorrow marks one year since the death of my brother-in-law.  Two children and 45 years later, it’s goes without saying, Rodney was the light of Lynda’s life, her husband, friend and lover for most of her life. 
   
Oh, Lynda; I wish it wasn't so.  

I wish love and loss didn’t go hand in hand.  I wish life didn’t require so much courage; but how amazingly beautiful and poignant that courage.  

Wish Kermit had been there to sing for me and Lynda.

What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing?  The chance to love and be loved, to find meaning in the midst of the darkness.  

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