Across Time and Space
Night. Crisp air. Clear skies. My younger brother had a backyard telescope when we were kids, and on those perfect nights we would take it out. The bright light of the moon would pierce through the eyepiece, and we viewed craters, imagining we could see footprints from astronauts. Or we would take turns aligning the telescope to reveal Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, the white caps at the poles of Mars, or the rings of Saturn. I think a few times we got to see a comet. Standing barefoot on the cool driveway, I thought about the tiny sparkles in the blue-black sky. I was fascinated by the small planets floating in the vastness. Occasionally, we would skip the telescope and just lie on our backs, look skyward, and shriek with excitement when a meteor would streak by. But the telescope brought it all just a little bit closer.
Astronomer Carl Sagan once delivered a public lecture at Cornell during which he displayed a dark fuzzy image of outer space with no stars, just a few streaks of sunlight in the frame. But in one sunbeam, there was a tiny speck of light, you had to really look to see it. There was Earth as it appeared from the edge of our solar system. A “pale blue dot” in the void of space. He stated, “To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.” It was a call for humanity to improve what it cares for. To find a better sense of purpose.
For me, part of that idea crystalized when I become a mother. I find a deep sense of purpose in caring for my daughter as she develops into her own person. We talk. We explore the world. I like showing her things she’s never seen before. Over the years, we've frequently watched the stars from our backyard. She and I have lain on the beach and looked for planets at dusk. We have hiked in the desert Southwest and the mountainous Northeast looking out at vast horizons before us. Just a few weeks ago on a night hike, we were under the protection of a large tree, looking up through branches black with stars twinkling behind them.
As I age and settle deeper into motherhood, I think more about where and with whom to spend my time, what matters, and what my place is in the universe. Everywhere I go in nature, everywhere she and I go together, we observe the vastness around us. I am not a teacher, but I teach. I am not a guidance counselor, but I guide and counsel. If I am able to help, I want it to be this. To help her listen to the richness of life in this world. To help her consider the effects of her actions. To help nurture a person who will be responsible, kind and caring.
She cares about the world around her. In so many ways she is becoming her own person, growing up, yet still holding onto wonder and curiosity about the natural world. She treasures the tiniest songbirds and gets excited when a hawk passes overhead. And while she and I are birdwatching or meteor watching, she sometimes holds my hand crossing the space between two people. We bridge time and place. It’s rarer these days. I treasure it just the same.
Something can be precious and vast at the same time: planet earth, the shore, a mountaintop view, friendships, love. Perhaps that is the heart of what it takes to care—an understanding that our relationships with our children, our parents, our loves—and strangers—are like that too. Seemingly small from far away, but vast and deep up close.