Mintie, On Being and Nothingness

On Being and Nothingness

Living in Chicago, you kind of forget how small you are.

Sounds kind of weird to say when you live in a city of 3 million+ people. But it really is in seclusion that you remembr how small we really are.

When I was a child, we would drive out into cornfields and watch the night sky. Meteorite watching, planet hunting and shuttle spotting. I’m talking 40-50 miles south of Chicago in the mid 70s. The city was not nearly as bright as it is now... but it was there, and so very close. But meteorites appeared aplenty and I could always tell you which planets were making a guest appearance on a given night. This was one of my major quests as a child and instilled the first answer to the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” Astronaut was the main goal in those days.

My world travels have taken me to all points of the globe, but none very removed from a major city. The closest I’ve come to being in the desert was Las Vegas, which is much too bright to view the night sky. The light of cruise ships didn’t help stargazing even in the Caribbean. And Rome or Paris, being so brightly, lit were not good planet viewing venues

Nay, it is being 160 miles (~100 as the crow flies) from Chicago, on a major body of water. Major, being a great lake... Lake Michigan to be precise. And on the edge of the woods.

A friend invited me to his family’s cottage near Grand Haven, Michigan, where conveniences are well within reach... but far enough away to be nearly *remote*. And being on the lakefront added to the reclusiveness of it all. Of course we filled the cottage with lively inhabitants. Many of whom, we’ve known for years. So the waking hours were filled with laughter, conversation and revelry.

But at the end of one particularly lovely day. One in which we walked up the beach into town to partake in local events, sightsee, buy trinkets, relax and generally be tourists, many of the weekend’s guests shuffled off to bed early... er... “early”, exhausted from the fresh air and activity.

As I bogarted images off digital cameras and downloaded videos from the weekend to create a keepsake DVD, I found myself the lone creature skulking about the house at this hour. I dimmed all the lights in the house and bundled up to face the chilly May breeze and staged a small sit-in on the cottage’s back porch.

In this midst of this solitude it reminded me of how small I really am.

The only sound is the breeze in the trees... the crashing of the waves... and my own heartbeat. Smell of fresh lake water... spring foliage... and the wood of neighboring cottages.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I was struck by how vast the lake is. Yes, it’s a lake, not an ocean. And although you *may* see a dim light from Milwaukee across the lake, it really does seem as if you are peering into an abyss.

But the most spectacular... and, I am sorry to say, most *forgotten* sight were the stars. They weren’t a “is that an airplane?”... or “what is that bright spot? oh, it must be a planet” type sightings. They truly were there hanging just above my head... DOZENS of them!

This is not a “camping in the outback” type epiphany... but an “I’ve been amongst the bright lights of the city and forgot about stars” realization. Twinkling. Bright. Steady. Constant.

There they were. In patterns for me to try to decipher. Or just to admire. Hanging above my head. As they have always been. And will always be.