This isn’t the blog post I started to write, but maybe this is the post I need to write. Do you ever feel like that?
I vaguely remember someone discussing tonight’s meteor shower, and then I promptly forgot all about it until a friend posted on Facebook. I thought that I’d step outside to see it since I was up, but I forgot as I finished the show I was watching. You see how silly I am?
I stepped outside in my gizmo slippers, not expecting to see anyone, but my neighbor was getting something from his car so I retreated inside. I finally remembered and headed back outside to watch the stars. I oriented myself, found a dipper and shivered. I was just about to give up and go inside. As I turned, I saw a meteor burning brightly and flying through the sky. It renewed my patience, my strength. I stayed outside to find another one. I adjusted my position because I realized the building might’ve been blocking some meteors. Of course. I was limited because I was in my gizmo slippers and didn’t want to get them wet with snow.
The second meteor came from the same direction but shot out in a different path. It was so bright. They both seemed so closed. I waited out a third “shooting star.” Its trajectory was similar to the first. I felt that three stars in such a short time was enough to call it a night. It’s the type of night where you see your breath, and what sort of weirdo stands outside in slippered feet in the middle of a Demcember night?
Oh yes. I do.
The science isn’t as exciting as the mythology. The idea of a shooting star, of something you make a wish on. It’s the stuff of fairy tales, of songs. It is, for some people, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I found myself reminded of the beauty of nature. Of the insignificance of it all. Of the minutiae that is myself and every other human. I stared at the sky with childlike eyes. I was in awe, and I loved it.
Moments like these remind me how I’ve become soft in my old age. I jest. I’m hardly old, but it seems like the older I get, the more I appreciate my ability to look at things with awe, with wonder, with softness. It’s a talent I’ve not always had, even as a child. I cherish the ability that I’ve grown.
And I am grateful for the opportunities to exercise that.