Monday, March 12, 2012
Vivid indigo night skies energize my senses. Appearances suggest I am serene lying out under such a sky. I’m not. There is an intensity of anticipation, and an activity of thought rarely conjured in the day-to-day. I’ve written songs, worked out paintings, sifted problems under the spell of night skies. Maybe two or three times a year I’m able to see such a sky. I can’t experience it where I live. The city sprays a film of sulfur-colored light over the heavens, muddying up the view.
Last summer, I could no longer bear city living. When I get to that point, there’s an urgency to the trip, like a flight into Egypt. The whole family hurriedly packed and we trained our Caravan toward Backbone State Park to camp. That night each found a place to stargaze and sunk into a silent vigil. My spot was a picnic table, lying on my back, arms behind my head. My youngest daughter snuggled against my shoulder. Worries are diffused under those magnificent starfields. Deep space. A vastness that subdues. Quiets. As I stare towards Polaris, a burst of streaming light pierced the edge of my vision. I watched a shooting star pass through my daughter’s outstretched hand. The dark glassy sky, luminous, then receded, leaving the night dripping with expectation.
I remember that night and I grow restless. The thought of such extravagant romance is unnerving. For surely it is romance that infused the heavens with glory. Deep romance in the Incarnation. I grow old and tired. The Bridegroom, younger than we, never tires of the romance. He is forever Light and the vision of who we shall become resides in Him.