Star Train

After dinner, we walked our neighbors home, which has become our tradition. This is amazing on many levels. First, that we had dinner together inside our house, which has only recently become okay, all of us gratefully vaccinated and newly aware of how special it is to sit at a table with friends. (For dessert, I made ice cream with a custard base, rich and creamy and not too sweet, infused with the tang of lemon juice from the fruits of our own trees.) Also, walking our friends home means a stroll in the dark along a canyon road etched by a creek and lined with oak trees, moon shadows quivering on the ground, the sky sparked with stars in unimaginable numbers.

And then, I noticed a new constellation to the north, a line-up of stars moving left to right, like cars in a train, a train of stars. I thought I was imagining it, but we all stopped to watch, and sure enough, it kept happening, and many minutes elapsed before the caboose. I was inclined to make up stories about UFOS and aliens, or to imagine this was a natural cosmic phenomenon I had somehow never before noticed, but Monte knew exactly what it was: SpaceX Starlink, a network of satellites deployed to bring better internet access to worldwide locations. Apart from a vague uneasiness about manmade stuff up there in the heavens, it was still pretty amazing to behold. I even harbored a selfish wish that we might benefit.

The neighbors’ dogs came bounding out to greet them, and we hugged our friends good-night, yet another thing not to be taken for granted. Then Monte and I walked back home hand in hand, stopping only to observe the moon shining through white clouds and perching in the branches of the tree we call the Lion Oak, said to be the tallest oak on the ranch. Wonders abound. I’m a simple old woman, drunk with it all.

Earlier in the week, we watched a broadcast of The Dalai Lama sponsored by UCSB Arts and Lectures. The subject was “creating hope”, which is dear to my heart. (The very fact that people all over the world could watch His Holiness in real time on their computer screens seemed itself a hopeful thing.) I have fastened my hopeful perspective more securely in place, fully convinced that it’s the best way to navigate. Both hope and despair tend to be self-fulfilling, so why not choose the former? And kindness, which was also emphasized, certainly can’t hurt. I shall strive to be kind despite the disillusionment and misanthropic feelings prompted by the behavior of certain humans. (See? It’s hard to shake those unkind impulses.)

In the morning there came an epiphany. (My daughter tells me she is skeptical of my epiphanies–apparently I have them, and announce them, too frequently to be taken seriously.) Nonetheless, it felt like an epiphany to me. The revelation (a slightly less dramatic word) was about kindness, and about directing that kindness first and foremost to my own beleaguered self. This isn’t new. I’ve been offered such counsel many times before. The difference is that it suddenly seemed to click into place. I was standing in the living room facing the bookshelf where I could see all the photos of people I have loved. I could see the books, of course, and the large conch seashell my father held to my ear when I was a little girl so I could hear the sea, a pair of binoculars, and a bumper sticker that reads You Are Here. I thought of my life as a creation, a composition in progress, and the assemblage on the bookcase before me seemed symbolic of it, or a shrine to it, and it is a truly beautiful life.

And I thought, I haven’t made such a terrible mess of things, after all. Into the fabric of any life, threads of heartbreak and error must be stitched. These add to the texture, arranging themselves into patterns of wisdom, the colors rendered richer with gratitude for what we have, deepened by what was lost. I stood there for a long while, and the morning sun shone into the room, and I felt as though I were standing in a shaft of light. I felt…dare I say it?…as though I were light.

It has been a good week in this good life of mine, and I’ll partake and enjoy, and try to be generous. I’ve planted some things and been tending to the garden, and rediscovering the old satisfaction of playing in the dirt. I went for a walk to the seawall with an interesting young woman and we talked about poetry, among other things, and there was the exhilarating sense of having found a new friend. She sent me a poem (Alienmatch.Com by Kim Addonizio) and I could relate: I too spend whole nights trying to phone my dead parents; a lion stalks me so frequently, I recognize his shadow and his scent, and I wander in a continual state of wonder and confusion. As John O’Donohue wrote, “It’s strange to be here. The mystery never leaves you.” We are aliens all.

Constructions of light. Star dust. Who knows what it amounts to? In the meantime, I have watched a star train pass.