So tonight I curled up in my comfiest sweats and prepared to watch something. A movie? TV show? YouTube videos of cute babies? Nope, nope, and nope. I know - SHOCKER. Instead I bundled up in my Uggs, my warmest coat, and an embarrassing snow leopard hat. No, not just a leopard print hat, but one that makes me look like a snow leopard:
I quietly crept out of my house with my iPod and a warm blanket and subsequently camped out on my trampoline. I should mention that it was 21 degrees outside. My feet, which under the warmest conditions still freeze like icicles, felt like they were going to fall off. But no biggie. I had the Geminid Meteor Shower to take my mind off of it.
I've always really loved the stars, but not in a constellation-detecting, sciencey sort of way. Because let's be real: I can spot a big dipper just about as well as I can spot celebrities in New York City. (Hint: not well at all). But in my experience there is something so soothing about staring up at the sky, waiting patiently to see something incredible.
It all started at camp up in Maine, where the sky never ends and the stars shine a little bit brighter. I was spoiled as a camper because I could look up on any given night and see the world. It was always there, but I can't say that I really appreciated it until I found myself really needing to see something spectacular. I was sixteen years old and it was the last night of camp. I was a Junior Counselor, which meant that I was responsible for a cabin full of crazy girls who acted just like I did when I was in their shoes. Somehow I ended up outside on this final night with one of my closest camp friends, and as we attempted to process the fact that summer was ending, we looked up in the sky and were faced with shooting star after shooting star. So we settled back, and without speaking we just stared up at the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I was speechless.
It wasn't just that summer was ending, or that I would have to say goodbye to some old and cherished friends. I was coming off of a really difficult summer, one with some of the highest highs and the lowest lows I've ever felt, and I was really in the market for some guidance. I was at a major turning point in my life, and after saying too many goodbyes in such a short period of time I was looking for some grand sign from the universe that everything was going to be ok. It sounds cheesy, but those shooting stars comforted me that night when I was feeling the weight of all that I had lost in such a short period of time. They streaked across the biggest sky I have ever seen, and it was like I was just a speck in the grand scheme of things. Which meant that my problems and my concerns were even tinier specks. I was going to move past it all and rebuild. And I did.
Now, almost six and a half years later, I stare up at the same sky. But it's not the same, not really. And I'm not the same. But I am faced with an all too familiar dilemma: Do I stay still and stare straight ahead, in hopes that a shooting star will cross my field of vision? Or do I explore the sky a bit and let my eyes wander franticly? On one hand I could really miss out if I'm staring at one tiny patch of the sky, but on the other hand I could miss some smaller beauties if my eyes are constantly roaming the scene. With my trusty iPod playing a steady soundtrack of Explosions in the Sky (pretty apt I thought), I went back and forth, not wanting to miss a thing. In the end I let my eyes explore, knowing all too well that I don't respond well to staying in one place for too long. And I saw some amazing meteors all over the giant canvas in front of me.
I didn't realize it at first, but I needed this tonight. Sure I was freezing and felt like a crazy person all bundled up on my trampoline (and I was convinced that the wild turkey in my neighborhood would come and try to eat me) but as I deal with a jumbled mess of emotions and attempt to make some decisions about my future, it was comforting to see shooting stars streak the sky once more. It may not be the same sky, and I may not be the same person I was when I was sixteen, but I take some comfort in knowing that the stars are always going to be up there. I just have to be patient and determined to find them.
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