Gazing at the Stars

I step outside on this cool, clear night and marvel at the stars. While my children sleep and my wife reads a book to close out the day, I stand on my deck and gaze upward. How long has it been since I took a moment to look at the universe?

I wish I recognized the constellations, that I knew the names and properties of each star visible from my home at this time of year. This human urge to know and to categorize seems hardwired. I could open an app on my phone, lift it to the sky, and find answers to the questions racing across my mind. Superficial questions, anyway. But I don't want to put something made by humans between me and the sky.

The pulsing lights of two airplanes move in opposite directions. The sound of their roaring engines doesn't reach me. I only hear the occasional whoosh of a gentle wind when it picks up speed along with the faintest notes of a wind chime on a neighbor's porch.

Is anyone else looking at the stars right now?

Are prayers being offered up to unseen gods and ancestors?

Is anyone looking back? Or listening?

I ponder these questions with interest, but not anxiety. Awe, but not trepidation. Tonight, I simply mark my gratitude. These are the days, and nights, and moments to cherish.

I'm reminded that we are made of stardust. We are crafted from elements forged in supernovas. We are consciousness carried along by matter formed from explosions and chemical reactions over billions of years. We are, in a phrase, heavenly bodies.

As we grapple with so many weighty concerns, from political disputes and war to pandemics and climate change, we owe it to ourselves to pause, remember what we're made of, and be amazed. How might we treat ourselves, each other, and our planet with this perspective in mind?

Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash