Ever since the James Webb telescope started sending pictures, I’ve been fascinated by the images from deep space. Billions of stars. Billions of galaxies. Simply amazing. But, even after seventy years of living, astronomy is still mostly unfamiliar.
So, while I was out doing my late night walk with our dogs Daisy (ours) and Sadie (Bridget’s), I looked up at the sky. It was clear and brisk. A typical January night, enticing wisps of breath from all of us. The crescent moon had slipped below the horizon. Jupiter looked like a spotlight from an incoming UFO. And towards the southeast was Orion.
I’m not much of an astronomer, but somehow I knew it was Orion.
My first reckoning was just noticing the constellation. But being away from most ambient light, it was brighter, more defined. I kept looking. It clearly stood out. For some reason, I actually knew one of the stars was Betelgeuse. At the upper left. The others I didn’t know. And that made me a little frustrated. How could I simply not notice?
And it made me remember being in the Mojave desert decades ago with friends Bill and Rocky. The lack of clouds, moisture and light, made the night sky a three dimensional tapestry, with some stars clearly closer than others. It was like standing on a mountain pass, looking down a valley and seeing a stretch of little homes and villages spread all the way out, each light seemingly within reach.
At the time it was magical. The scope. The size. The immensity.
But, like so much in our lives, it was something that was viewed, appreciated, then moved on from. I haven’t seen it like that since.
But tonight that memory made me realize something else. Something different. Something special. Orion wasn’t just a constellation. It wasn’t just a group of stars. I was looking at a massive, majestic creation of nature. Like seeing the Pacific Ocean from Big Sur. Or the Grand Canyon. Or the Rocky Mountains. The kind of place you spend years thinking about visiting. Thinking how wonderful it must be to actually be there and see it. The beauty. The majesty.
And what must it be like to live in Big Sur? To wake up every morning to ocean waves splashing on the rocks below.
And so, too, Orion. It’s is right there. There is no driving. There is no planning. Just a late night walk outside (away from the lights). Like Big Sur, the ocean is right there.
We all live right beneath a massive, majestic creation of nature.
When I realized this, I wanted to learn more. I wanted to get to know the neighborhood. Who are these stars? I have a terrible memory, so I started out slowly. Sure, I knew Betelgeuse. Next: at the lower right, Rigel. Swipe down and left from Orion’s Belt to find Sirius, one of the night’s brightest stars.
Why stop there? Clockwise from Sirius circling outside Orion: Procyon. Pollux and Castor (the anchor stars of Gemini). Up to Cappella. Follow Orion’s arrow through Aldebaran into the Pleiades cluster. They become familiar. Like a rock formation or tiny island seen from your perch in Big Sur.
Now, when I gather the dogs for their midnight stroll, my excitement heightens if it’s a clear sky. I look up and there it is. Huge and bright. Towering over me like the immensity that it is. But also a warm, welcoming sight, like seeing that familiar sign post or structure you pass everyday on your way home. Comfortable and serene. Part of the beauty of being here.
Semi-Thoughtful Musings 