My dad loved words, all kinds of words. He learned Latin and Greek when studying to become a minister, and he taught us the roots of many words.
The one I loved the most was "disaster", from the Latin "dis" and "astros", meaning to be separated from the stars. Stars have always been hugely important to me, probably because I spent my early years in small towns so I saw them in all their glory. Thinking about being separated from the stars meant something to me, something powerful. Imagine not being able to be in awe of the overwhelming mystery of the night sky! Imagine never thinking about the immensity of the Universe, or wondering if there were people in other galaxies looking at my star, wondering if anyone lived near that star.
Imagine not knowing that there are concepts and sizes and wonders that I can't begin to comprehend. Imagine not seeing this incredible beauty and grandeur.
I've lived in cities all my adult life, and I've always mourned the emptiness of the night sky. I sought out places to visit far away from light pollution, and I stargazed as though I was a starving woman offered a feast.
The most glorious night of my life was on the North Shore of Lake Superior. My friend's cabin was rustic, ie: no indoor plumbing. We hauled water in and used a classic old outhouse. I was always twitchy about middle of the night visits to the outhouse - spiders, bears, things that made noises I couldn't identify - until the night I made a 3AM potty visit and was dumbstruck by the aurora borealis. I woke Sylvie , we gathered blankets and pillows and stumbled down to the waterfront and laid ourselves down on the enormous rocks. I've never seen anything this astonishing. Straight overhead you could see the energy streams swirling in through a clearly defined hole, red and yellow and green streams that spun around the sky and finally settled at the horizon, creating those shimmering curtains seen further south.
I had no idea this glory was available to human eyes. I'd never seen a picture of anything like this. We stayed and watched until our shivering became uncontrollable, then left reluctantly, dragging our blankets, stopping to look one more time. We were so chilled we had to light a fire, and took turns going back outside until the light show ended.
Stars, and the aurora, a river so clean you can swim in it and see the bottom 10 feet down, a particularly intricate old live oak, 4 layers of different types of clouds in one sweep of sky, a moon so bright you can read by it, a sunset that brings you to tears. This are my touchstones, my sanity in a world that frightens me.
Arthur C. Clarke described Earth as being a tiny planet in a nondescript solar system located in a small arm of an insignificant galaxy, far away from the center of the Universe. (rough paraphrase) I've always found an odd kind of comfort in that notion. What seems enormous to me - Faux News and Glenn Beck, HCR, the perfidies of the Republican Party, being bi-polar, watching my mom slip further into dementia - how important is it, in the larger scheme of things?
Of course all of those things matter to me, because I live on this small planet, and I care what happens in my tiny corner of the solar system because this is my home. Everyone I love is here. Everything that matters is here, and I'm responsible for making the best of what I have. (Lady, make me a blessing to someone today!)
This morning I sat, clenching my teeth, on the organ bench. I listened to the prayers for the unborn, and prayed I wouldn't run to the lectern and scream "What about the born? What about the hungry children who are here? What about the women who know they can't raise a child in comfort and good health because they earn the minimum wage, and that barely pays for a crappy apartment in a lousy neighborhood with rotten schools?"
I got through that, and came home distressed, angry, raging internally about the injustice of it all, and the blind hypocrisy of people who adore the fetus and ignore the living, hurting child.
I can't live in that state, it sucks all the energy out of me, it leaves me impotent to change the things I can. So I go outside, because right now I live in the country, I have the stars and the moon, I have heartbreakingly beautiful sunsets every night, and the aching beauty of l'heure bleu every evening and every morning. I have sweeping vistas of the distant hills, I'm able to watch native plants slowly overwhelm what was once a lawn. And today I saw hundreds of tiny black butterflies sailing over that waving grassland, and a dozen or more raptors high in the sky riding the thermals. I saw our herd of deer slipping along the edge of the wood that surrounds us. I watched a dazzling emerald green hummingbird sip from the lavender flowers that have burst into bloom since the drought broke, and I remembered that it's not all hopeless and grim and horrid.
My mom is currently reading and rereading the headlines from the Sunday paper, and I'm thinking "Oh God, I can't hear this again!" There are dishes to wash, and bird cages to clean, and a layer of dust so thick in my bedroom you'd think you were exploring an ancient tomb if you walked in unprepared. There are weeds to whack, and next week's hymns to practice, and OMFG I have to play those totally stereotypical Wedding Marches next Saturday (really, I have a couple of Bach pieces that are majestic! :::crickets:::)
And the butterflies have hatched out from the ground because this October has provided them with perfect conditions, and tonight is a new moon so the stars will be glorious, and it's 40 degrees cooler than it was 3 weeks ago. I can find hope and healing by walking out the door. What a gift!
If you live in a city, and are suffering the disaster of being separated from the stars please bless yourself by taking a drive away from the lights. Watch the sun set. Watch the stars begin peeking out, stay there until you can see the Milky Way, and remind yourself that the reason we care is because there is something bigger than us, something that pushes us to care, to love, to mourn, to help.