Zenith of the Night Sky
Janet Kuypers
1/27/17
(elaboration from “Changing Gears” 1/28/98 journal)
Once we were sitting outside
looking at the night sky.
There were no towns around us
for at least forty miles, and
there was not a single cloud in the sky.
It was absolutely amazing.
We could see the Milky Way very clearly,
and we could easily so many constellations.
I have never seen that many stars in my life.
After staring at the zenith
of the night sky for a while,
someone finally spoke.
“Looking up at these stars,
doesn’t it make you feel so insignificant?”
My eyes must have been saucers,
looking up at the night sky
with a grin I couldn’t
remove from my face.
“Not at all. I could never think that.”
“How could you not?” he asked.
And I told him
that I can’t look at my life as insignificant.
If I did, I wouldn’t want to excel in life
and I’d have no reason to continue.
Because the line
“Doesn’t it make you feel so insignificant?”
sounds like it should be followed with
“Doesn’t it make you feel so worthless?”
And I cannot function that way...
The night sky is so inherently beautiful;
the night sky is so aesthetically pleasing.
I look at these stars,
and I fall in love.
I look at these stars
and think that this is science,
we could learn from this.
I love to see the constancy
of the stars in the night sky —
these were the same stars
I saw when I was a child
in my lifelong love of astronomy.
I love the understanding
we gain about our world
by studying other planets and stars and galaxies.
And I love the fact
that I am on one of those planets,
and that I have this ability,
this unique opportunity,
to be a part of this
scientific love affair.
But then it occurred to me,
traveling around the earth
to see the sights is one thing,
But what about — up there?
Now I know I can’t afford
a flight to outer space,
but why not take a trek
toward the Arctic Circle
to see the Aurora Borealis?
So we made out plans,
stayed in a Bed and Breakfast
in Fairbanks Alaska
with window sills eighteen inches deep
because of the needed insulation,
even sang a few sets at Ivory Jack’s,
because the best time of night
to see the Aurora Borealis
was about one thirty in the morning,
long after our concert ended.
Yes, it was bitter cold,
and I was bundled up,
but I really didn’t care...
I’d take pictures anyway,
even though no photo
could emulate the dancing
solar wind in our magnetosphere
colliding into our atmosphere.
But with that collision,
what a light show it makes.
One man who lived for years
in Alaska shared with me
that he told his family
he would leave here
when the he lost his love
for the Aurora Borealis.
I know exactly what he means. |
