After several hours of driving, I stepped out of the car and felt the breath rush out of me. In my thirty years I could not remember seeing the night sky appear as it did then. It was literally stunning. I felt like I’d been lifted into space, like I could touch the stars or breathe them in. It had been years since I’d been in a wilderness at night.
When we moved to a small rural community, I spent many nights out on our deck star gazing. The scuffle in the city council at the time was over an ordinance that would minimize the wattage allowed for outdoor lighting. How quaint, I thought, that an issue like that is even on the agenda, let alone heated. But evening after evening as I sat and marveled, I came to appreciate the emotion behind the ordinance.
The place we live now has more light pollution and the stars are not as breathtaking. I barely give them a second glance. I didn’t spend even one night this summer looking heavenward, and now that it’s too cold to do so, I’m feeling the lack. Somehow in the vastness of space, I find it easier rather than more difficult to feel connected to God. Like somehow my very awareness, the fact that I’m feeling my own existence in the face of that dark expanse, connects me to the divinity in my spirit.
I’m not schooled in astronomy. I can’t identify any constellations other than the Big Dipper and Orion. The celestial symbols of our faith are mostly a mystery to me. But even with all of my ignorance, I find that I’m able to learn something about light by spending time in the dark.
The Leonid meteor shower happened early this morning. Did anyone see it?
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