Ignorance is bliss

This is a sunset I didn’t want to see. It was stunning, breathtaking in its intensity, painted in deep reds and dramatic shadows but beneath all that beauty, there was a kind of grief.

The dark clouds that gave it such a powerful, otherworldly look weren’t clouds at all. They were smoke, rising from a wildfire that had been burning for hours. A beautiful fir forest, one I knew and loved, was in flames just a few miles away.

And all I could do was stand still, silent, and pray. For the trees, for the animals, for whatever might still be alive in there.

And yet, I admired the sunset. Because how could I not? It was impossible to look away, even knowing what it meant.

I had walked in that forest just a few months ago. I had made quiet plans to return soon, imagining cool shade and a thick carpet of mulch under my feet. Now I’m afraid of what I’ll find instead.

I noticed many tourists around me taking photos of the sunset. They were smiling, chatting, capturing the view. I don’t blame them. I took pictures too. But it was also obvious that most of them didn’t know. They hadn’t heard about the fire. Or maybe they had, but they didn’t make the connection.

There’s a line in the first Matrix movie that goes something like this:

Ignorance is bliss.

And it really is, sometimes.
But sometimes, it’s heartbreaking.

Scrolling back through my phone’s gallery, I see the recycling facilities set against the same haunting sky. That strange, reddish darkness spread far beyond the forest. Further down, there are a few images from the previous day, at the beach. That same unsettling sky again. The fire had just begun, and we saw the first waves of dark smoke rising over the mountains while we were still in the water. It was distant, confusing at first. Just a strange smudge on the horizon.

Now I know what it was.

Now it’s all I can see in those photos.

As I write these lines, the sound of firefighting planes reaches me again, rumbling low and steady, heading west. This is the third day since the fire began. Hopefully, it will be the last.

But wildfires have their own pace. They don’t end easily, especially when they rage through remote, mountainous areas, hard to access, fueled by strong summer winds. Today, though, the wind has quieted. There’s a stillness in the air, and according to the latest reports, the fire is mostly under control.

Since I’ve already started going through the photos on my phone, I might as well keep scrolling a little further back. Maybe it’s a way to shift my thoughts, to balance out the heaviness of the last few days. Just enough to close this post on a gentler, lighter note.

Here’s a night view of the town, taken from one of my favourite spots, a place where the breeze never stops and everything slows down after dark.

Then a softer sunset, less dramatic, without the weight of destruction behind it.

And a beautiful evening at the ancient theatre of Epidaurus, filled with voices, music, and warmth. None of these are perfect photos. But somehow, they capture the feeling of this summer better than words.

And this last one. A quiet, golden sunset at the beach, taken after an unhurried, almost meditative evening swim. The sea was calm, the light was tender, and the air had cooled just enough to make time feel suspended. It was one of those rare moments that ask for nothing more than presence.

May the rest of this summer bring us more sunsets like that. Soft, kind, and full of breath. And none like the first one, beautiful as it was, but born from loss.