the night sky
For the expanding grandeur of Creation, worlds known and unknown,
galaxies beyond galaxies, filling us with awe and challenging our
imaginations, modim anachnu lach. - (Mishkan T'filah,
adapted from Eugene Pickett,
approximate complete text))
On a dark night far from civilization I gaze up at the heavens -- flickering stars beyond counting, the fuzzy smear of the Milky Way, one or a few distant globes that must be planets -- and this is just what I can see with my near-naked eye. God spoke to Avraham of stars in the sky and grains of sand on the ground; looking at the former I can only feel like one of the latter. There is so much out there, and I will only ever see a small portion of it, never getting any closer. Maybe future generations will see them more clearly, even walk on some of these anonymous globes, but I know I am to remain as a grain of sand.
Yet I am not saddened by this. Sure, I'd like to be up there -- who of us growing up during the space race never dreamed of being one of those in the spaceships? -- but I am content to remain here, appreciating what I can see and setting my imagination loose.
The bible teachings of my youth assured me that all of this was made for us alone. The scientist in me clamoring to get out screamed "no", we could not be the only ones. The torah of my adulthood leaves the question open.
It doesn't need to be all about us. Somewhere out there on a distant globe I imagine another sentient being gazing up at the night sky, wondering if he or she or it is all there is. What about that distant blue-green globe -- could anything of worth be there? His religious leaders might tell him that's ridiculous, to stop daydreaming and get back to work -- or his mind and imagination might lead him on a quest to find out.
Wouldn't it be grand if, some day, that being and I could meet? He could show me how he relates to the Creator and I could do the same for him. Somewhere in the vastness of that night sky, there must be another grain of sand with dreams and aspirations.
Mustn't there?
A writing prompt at a recent writing circle was to choose one stanza of this reading (click the link above for the rest) and react to it. This was shortly after Pennsic, which, while having a fair bit of light pollution, still lets me see more sky than I do the rest of the year. This is what came out of my head that day.
On a dark night far from civilization I gaze up at the heavens -- flickering stars beyond counting, the fuzzy smear of the Milky Way, one or a few distant globes that must be planets -- and this is just what I can see with my near-naked eye. God spoke to Avraham of stars in the sky and grains of sand on the ground; looking at the former I can only feel like one of the latter. There is so much out there, and I will only ever see a small portion of it, never getting any closer. Maybe future generations will see them more clearly, even walk on some of these anonymous globes, but I know I am to remain as a grain of sand.
Yet I am not saddened by this. Sure, I'd like to be up there -- who of us growing up during the space race never dreamed of being one of those in the spaceships? -- but I am content to remain here, appreciating what I can see and setting my imagination loose.
The bible teachings of my youth assured me that all of this was made for us alone. The scientist in me clamoring to get out screamed "no", we could not be the only ones. The torah of my adulthood leaves the question open.
It doesn't need to be all about us. Somewhere out there on a distant globe I imagine another sentient being gazing up at the night sky, wondering if he or she or it is all there is. What about that distant blue-green globe -- could anything of worth be there? His religious leaders might tell him that's ridiculous, to stop daydreaming and get back to work -- or his mind and imagination might lead him on a quest to find out.
Wouldn't it be grand if, some day, that being and I could meet? He could show me how he relates to the Creator and I could do the same for him. Somewhere in the vastness of that night sky, there must be another grain of sand with dreams and aspirations.
Mustn't there?
A writing prompt at a recent writing circle was to choose one stanza of this reading (click the link above for the rest) and react to it. This was shortly after Pennsic, which, while having a fair bit of light pollution, still lets me see more sky than I do the rest of the year. This is what came out of my head that day.