Reflections
[3:23am]
"I think that's it." I mumble, pulling a rental car neatly into a stall at the deserted parking lot at the Haleakala visitor center.
Weary from an hour-long drive up pitch-black switchbacks and less than two hours of sleep, I turn off the engine and close my eyes. It feels good to relax and not worry about driving off a cliff.
Occupant check. "Is everyone okay?" I ask. The first passenger blurts out "I'm going to the toilet!", and immediately exits the car. The second passenger barely manages to make a sound: "...Unggghhhhh.".
Right. Toilet it is.
I step outside and close the car door, leaving the cocoon of comfort. Despite being unusually still for a mountaintop, the cold night air manages to bite at my flesh. I stand around, trying to warm up in a jacket retrieved from the trunk. The dome light in the car and courtesy lights click off.
With the last bit of artificial light extinguished, I become trapped in darkness, unable to see, unable to move. As my eyes adjust, I can make out features: the car, the parking lot, hills, rocks... Then I look up.
(If only the Earth would hold still while I take a picture...)
Awestruck, I stood there with my head back, staring into the sky. Countless points of light, the Milky Way smeared across the sky, all completely visible with my naked eyes. This was the stuff I've read about, but as a city dweller, have never been able to see due to light pollution, haze, and clouds.
With nothing to hear but the faint whine in my ears, the entire sensory experience unfolded into an eerie scene. A chill went down my back. Oh, what a sudden flood of emotion. I felt so tiny, so insignificant, somewhat anxious, maybe a bit lost, but not alone.
Relax. No, I didn't feel some connection with a supernatural entity. Far from it. Rather, I realized that I was looking at a small portion of the universe, but that portion was big. Every point of light that I saw could not only be a single star, but galaxies of many, many stars. Every one of those stars can have planets orbiting them. Countless stars, countless planets, countless opportunities to support something we consider life.
With that realization, it no longer seems unreasonable to think that there may be other life out there; and not only life, but other societies, other people... maybe even another me. (Now there's a scary thought...) Similarly, the notion that Earth's life is the only life in the universe seems overly egotistic. Sure, the chances of just the right conditions may be microscopic, but we're talking about a big number of tries to get the right conditions. It's like trying to win the lottery, except you can buy as many tickets as you want, as many times as you want.
Interrupted, my focus instantly collapsed down to my tiny spot in infinity. "You're still out here? It's cold. The water in the sink is worse."
"I think that's it." I mumble, pulling a rental car neatly into a stall at the deserted parking lot at the Haleakala visitor center.
Weary from an hour-long drive up pitch-black switchbacks and less than two hours of sleep, I turn off the engine and close my eyes. It feels good to relax and not worry about driving off a cliff.
Occupant check. "Is everyone okay?" I ask. The first passenger blurts out "I'm going to the toilet!", and immediately exits the car. The second passenger barely manages to make a sound: "...Unggghhhhh.".
Right. Toilet it is.
I step outside and close the car door, leaving the cocoon of comfort. Despite being unusually still for a mountaintop, the cold night air manages to bite at my flesh. I stand around, trying to warm up in a jacket retrieved from the trunk. The dome light in the car and courtesy lights click off.
With the last bit of artificial light extinguished, I become trapped in darkness, unable to see, unable to move. As my eyes adjust, I can make out features: the car, the parking lot, hills, rocks... Then I look up.
(If only the Earth would hold still while I take a picture...)
Awestruck, I stood there with my head back, staring into the sky. Countless points of light, the Milky Way smeared across the sky, all completely visible with my naked eyes. This was the stuff I've read about, but as a city dweller, have never been able to see due to light pollution, haze, and clouds.
With nothing to hear but the faint whine in my ears, the entire sensory experience unfolded into an eerie scene. A chill went down my back. Oh, what a sudden flood of emotion. I felt so tiny, so insignificant, somewhat anxious, maybe a bit lost, but not alone.
Relax. No, I didn't feel some connection with a supernatural entity. Far from it. Rather, I realized that I was looking at a small portion of the universe, but that portion was big. Every point of light that I saw could not only be a single star, but galaxies of many, many stars. Every one of those stars can have planets orbiting them. Countless stars, countless planets, countless opportunities to support something we consider life.
With that realization, it no longer seems unreasonable to think that there may be other life out there; and not only life, but other societies, other people... maybe even another me. (Now there's a scary thought...) Similarly, the notion that Earth's life is the only life in the universe seems overly egotistic. Sure, the chances of just the right conditions may be microscopic, but we're talking about a big number of tries to get the right conditions. It's like trying to win the lottery, except you can buy as many tickets as you want, as many times as you want.
Interrupted, my focus instantly collapsed down to my tiny spot in infinity. "You're still out here? It's cold. The water in the sink is worse."