I wouldn’t have gone outside if it hadn’t been garbage night. It was dark, and it was cold. I was feeling cranky about the cold. I could have thrown on a jacket, but sometimes it’s easier and more satisfying to grumble. I was also feeling grouchy about the state of the world, which is not at all following the script I wrote for it.
And I was feeling grumpy about the garbage. I always think I should have no garbage. I’ve failed my standards if I fill the can. Most of it is plastic. It’s hard to avoid. Sometimes, you just want to buy shelf-stable gnocchi in the little plastic bag, and some days it doesn’t seem like there’s much one person can do (or can do without) to really make a difference.
I thunked my little plastic garbage sack into the little plastic garbage can and resolved to go back inside where it was warm. Fossil fuels contribute to my comfort, but I try not to think about that.
Why We Wrote This
When the world’s worries threaten to weigh you down, do as our essayist does and step outside. It’s a welcome reminder of how small we are in this great, big universe.
It’s exhausting to be of my political bent. I can’t quit caring, but I could use an intervention. Because if you let yourself, you can feel like you have let down the universe if you’re not constantly outraged.
I huffed a sour cloud into the chilly air, hunched against the cold, and started to grump my way back into the house, when something made me look up. A message. A bright bolt. A giant celestial “Hey, there!”
Venus! She will have her way with us.
I’m a city girl. But I’ve seen it before, the stars strewn across the sky like spilled treasure, crazy and loud with light. And if some of them seem to be winking at us, well? Maybe they are. Relax, sweet pea, they say. You’re never alone. Don’t be afraid to be meek. We’ve got you.
We don’t see a lot of stars here. There’s too much artificial light, and in the summertime too much haze, and in the winter, too many clouds. But the cold, clear air I was hunching against holds much less moisture, and starlight has an easier time punching through. I was riveted and immobilized, suddenly tuned in to the unfathomable beyond. I’m no astronomer, but I knew I had some serious planets here. Four. Venus. Mars, for sure. How could it actually still gleam red from 250 million miles away? And Jupiter. And another player the internet later told me was Saturn.
They were powerful, crisp, assertive. And there were actual stars, too, Orion’s being the most prominent. We all know Orion, with his belt, his shield, and his sword. We amateurs appreciate the Hunter for being so recognizable, but it’s just a matter of point of view, as everything is. If we were somewhere else (say, Mars), the very same stars would not resolve into a hunter. Some other demigod, maybe. They would be Orion the Space Wombat, or whatever they have on Mars.
Perspective changes everything.
I miss stars. But here in the city, I can walk to almost anything I need, and what I can’t walk to I can bicycle to. The city is a good way for a lot of people to live together efficiently – it’s a trade-off, and I’m fine with it. I do know all the stars I can see are in our own galaxy, and only our nearest neighbors at that. I know our galaxy is rather small as these things go. I know the universe is unimaginably vast.
But what has me rooted here, looking up from my little garbage can at the curb, is a transfusion of beauty into a faltering spirit. I am so very grateful to be reminded of how small I am. I’ll fight the good fight tomorrow. I’ll still monitor my garbage as though I’m an accountant, but no pocket protector can mute my thumping heart. I’m not going inside just yet. I’m plenty warm now.
