Stars

I've been thinking a lot lately about stars.

From the time I was little, I would look up in the night sky, full of wonder and amazement at the small white dots shining there. It was breathtaking and humbling to discover that these dots were spectacular explosions, frozen in space at distances I couldn't even begin to understand.

In a way, stars provide fantastic connections. It makes me feel stitched together with humanity as I realize that I look up at the same night sky that Albert Einstein and Abraham Lincoln and Pocahontas looked up at. I think about the billions of people who have taken a glance up at the stars and felt, like me, that they aren't alone. That the same solace I feel from the polka-dots above me has been felt by people I will never know. It's an incredible feeling.

But at the same time, the stars remind me how little I am. That when I glance up at them, their light comes from trillions and trillions of miles away. And I remember that even the most daring human will never reach even the nearest star. It's frustrating that these celestial bodies taunt us with their light, laughing at our futile attempts to explore beyond our little blue planet.

Most people, when they look up at the stars, attempt to identify constellations — the human-made game connecting the dots in the sky into shapes we recognize. I prefer a different way. Above the knowledge of other people's constucts I place value in the wonder of not knowing. It's not that the constellations aren't an interesting thing humans have done to try and piece together the sky, it's just that I feel as if you shouldn't have to piece something together that isn't broken. But I guess that's just me.

One thing that stars do for me is remind me how much is truly out there. Not only in the universe, but right here on our rock floating in it. Yes, the stars remind me of how much of the universe I will never see; of the planets and moons and galaxies too distant from me to even begin to comprehend. But each time I look at the stars, I can't help but think of the things right here on earth that I have yet to discover. I think of the foods I still have left to try and the mountains I have yet to climb and the cultures I have not experienced so far. I think of the people, as varying and as spectacular as the stars — of the friends I have yet to make and the lovers I have yet to kiss and the other stargazers I have yet to look upwards with.

The stars remind me that there is so much life left to be lived. And that keeps me going.

When I falter, I do my best to remember to look up. When I fall to my knees in frustration and anguish I remember that the best people in the world — the ones who looked up at the same stars I do — had their own struggles. But they got through them, and so will I.

And so will I.

For all of the 6,899 days I’ve been alive, the stars have made their appearance each and every night. Their consistency is a comfort I know I can always depend on. And I feel as if in some way, they depend on me too. In the same way I know I can go outside and look up at the stars each night, I hope that the stars can depend on me to look at them. I feel an obligation to them, as if forgetting to stop and gaze at them would be an injustice to the comfort and wonder they've given me.

In October, John Green will release a new book. At the end of the first chapter of that book comes this quote, which I can't get out of my head:

"Davis and I never talked much, or even looked at each other, but it didn't matter, because we were looking at the same sky together, which is maybe more intimate than eye contact anyway. I mean, anybody can look at you. It's quite rare to find someone who sees the same world you see."

I've been thinking a lot lately about stars.