Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Despite starry events happening in the night sky
this weekend, yesterday neither started nor ended to my liking. I awoke at 2:30am with a strong sense of
urgency. Midnight to dawn was the peak of November’s Leonid
meteor shower. My friend, Christy,
reminded everyone on facebook to not miss this and I wanted to go out for her. She is in lock down (as she calls it), hospitalized,
undergoing a stem cell transplant.
For a few seconds opposite thoughts played tug of
war in my head: Get up! You know you want to! Our sky
is not dark enough so it’s pointless to go out and I don’t know what I’m
looking for. The night sky will be
awesome! I never see comets or meteors
or falling stars. I waffled between the comfort of warm flannel sheets, inertia of doubts, past disappointments and the lure of adventure, wonder, and expending energy in honor of a friend. Get up for Christy finally got me out of bed. I got up, and so did my expectations.
Bound by boots, hat, coat and further trussed in a
thick blanket, I shuffled outside to watch the predawn sky. The sky
was gorgeous, clear and bright, not a trace of cloud. Silent and dark, our farm seemed mysterious
with shadowy lumps of barn, of horse and goat, both fur and wood catching enough
light to illuminate hazy outlines. Without
thinking I headed west where I often do my star gazing. Realizing
my mistake, I stumbled east, muck boots catching on twigs and grass clumps in
the front lawn. I walked past the barn,
past the light mounted on a pole between our barn and shed, out into the back
fields. Spotting the Big Dipper easily,
I scanned the sky until the constellation Leo revealed itself. This
is where all the action is supposedly taking place. Wonderful seeing Leo so clearly! With eyes
finally adjusted to dark, I back into the open door of the implement shed where
protected from chill and breeze, I lean heavily on a giant tractor wheel,
waiting hopefully.
In the cold waiting, I convince myself to stay put.
Something drove me out of bed this night.
That is my assurance, a guarantee.
Tonight is my lucky night! Or not. After an hour of marveling at the beauty of the night sky, wondering about the strange noises coming from the farm on my right, hearing lots of dogs barking in the distance, and suffering a major crick in the neck, I gave up hope and crawled back into bed.
I woke up at 7am with a headache. Internet research informed me if the Little Dipper can’t be seen the sky may not be dark enough to see a falling star. I hadn’t spotted the Little Dipper. Yep, I knew our sky was too polluted with light.
All that day, a tinge of grouchiness followed me
around. I felt grateful for experiencing
a starry sky, grateful and admiring of Christy’s cheerfulness during her struggle
for healing. Yet, there was also a keen disappointment
over not seeing a meteor shower. One
more disappointment on top of many that had been collecting. I begrudge showing up when so often nothing
happens. So what was the urgency that asked me to get up?
This morning I woke again, at 4am. No urgency, just wide awake. I didn’t lie there debating; I simply got up
thinking I would write while the place was asleep. It’s always hard to find uninterrupted
writing time. Instead of heading to the
computer, oddly, I find myself pulling on boots, hat, coat. Cold
without socks, my bare-in-boots feet find their way to the back field with ease,
my eyes instantly adjusting to the dark.
I laugh as I move, feeling light and foolish but not caring. No blanket protects me; the chill penetrates though
hat and coat. Hints of dawn caress the
horizon. Hazy streaks of clouds fan the dome of sky, east to west, as if a giant
Amish windmill lay up there, cut in half and immobilized. There’s the Big Dipper, there’s Leo. I feel the darkness ache for dawn as the sky fills my soul with beauty. I gaze, alive and present to this new day. This is my prayer for me, for Christy, for all: that we dwell in love, soaking up goodness and beauty.
What was that? To the left of Leo a tiny
flash! I stare, open mouthed and open hearted,
every cell of my body alive and focused. A falling flash to the right – this one with a
longer tail. Seconds, maybe minutes
pass.
Freezing, and without any need to coax more from
the universe, I turn slightly toward the house when another spark catches my
eye. Barely visible, the falling gleam
of light validates that I’m indeed seeing a meteor shower. I walk gratefully, reverently back to the
house. Later, I write in my journal: when I get out of bed obligated or expecting, the day sometimes is more duty and unfulfilled moments than a life open to possibilities. Love urged me to go out last night. Love moved me out of bed this morning too.
“Now I know
only in part; then I will know fully. Faith, hope, and love abide. The greatest of these
is love.” St Paul
“I learned
that the power had never been in my losses or the obstacles that arise in life,
but in the love revealed through them.” Paula D’ArcyThis blog is dedicated to Christy Warthling, her personal work in healing, and her work in organizing an information group concerning AngioimmunoblasticTCellLymphoma. Love you Christy! http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/Angioimmunoblastic/
Twinkle twinkle little star
Now we know just what you are
Making atoms in your core
Helium and many more
Twinkle twinkle little star
Now we know just what you are.
Now we know just what you are
Making atoms in your core
Helium and many more
Twinkle twinkle little star
Now we know just what you are.
Twinkle twinkle little star
How I've wondered what WE are
Now I know you're made of dust
Now I know you're just like us
Twinkle twinkle, oh so far
Now I know I am a star.
Verse
1 by Connie Barlow; verse 2 unknown
