starlight

It’s one of those (THOSE) days. I’m ready for bed, and we haven’t even eaten dinner yet. If it were just me, I’d skip it. It isn’t just me, so dinner’s in the oven. Sounds are louder than usual and seem to reverberate inside my skull. The pollen count is exponential even though it’s only February. The kids are bouncin’ and fussin’ like ‘possums in a live trap, and I have a headache. Really, everyone’s talking at once except for me, because I don’t feel like talking. I don’t feel like listening either, but it’s my job so I grin and grit, my teeth. That only sounds harsh if you don’t have your own children, or if you have one child but not two, or if you have more than one child but a living room bigger than a toll booth. In truth, our living room is a fine size for a family of four, but not when the sound is bigger than the space it can fill….Lord, help me Jesus.

“The longest an astronaut ever stayed in space was one year and seventy two days.”

“Really? Does that include cosmonauts too?”

“What?”

“Does that include cosmonauts too?”

“WHAT? I can’t HEAR because SHE keeps MAKING NOISE!”

“SHHHHH! Nevermind.”

“I wonder why space is dark.”

“It isn’t.” I’m grumpy, pessimistic; did I mention the headache?

I try to explain, but his sister’s drilling herself through the hardwood floors. She doesn’t realize that ballerinas don’t sing while they dance. Talking over this isn’t possible, so I wait. He’s waiting too, but not as patiently.

“YES IT IS AT NIGHT TIME. I SAID, SPACE IS DARK AT NIGHT. WHEN IT’S DARK OUTSIDE.”

Oh, head. 

“EVEN WHEN IT’S DARK HERE—”

“HUNH?”

“I SAID—” She spins herself into the arm of the couch and erupts like a bottle rocket.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWOOOHOOOOOO—”She breathes. Repeats. The dog begins to howl.

“SHHHH! I told you NOT to SPIN! Don’t SPIN! Don’t SPIN! What did you expect?!”

Breathe. The dog stops. She stops. He stares. I breathe in and out and close my eyes to see the darkness and for this one second hear the silence of space.

“I wipped my sweeve.” The crying resumes, blue corduroy exposes a red scrape on pink skin; her embrace hits me like a tackle.  I hold her, my heart breaking for the scolding, my mind knowing that if she would just listen….I promise that I can mend the tear. She promises not to spin again (but she will because ballerinas have to spin, with or without the singing). Her head begins to move against my neck and shoulder, and I know she’s wiping her nose on my sleeve. I squeeze her close and remain quiet.

“So you said that space isn’t dark?”

I laugh. I’d almost forgotten, catastrophe, headache, and all, but he’s there to remind me, always inquisitive. They’re both quiet, for the moment, looking at me wide-eyed. I know they think I’m crazy for laughing, but somehow, the laughing makes even my head feel better.

And so the lesson unfolds. I’ve never cared so much about space, not like he does, not like his dad. They think NASA is the coolest thing on Earth….I wish NASA would search Earth for a cure for cancer….They wake up in the darkness of morning to stand on the dew-wet boards of our deck, just to  stare upward to glimpse a flyover by the Space Station. I sit up to watch meteor showers late in the dampness of summer midnights swaying to crickets and treefrogs and nightsong playlists. The stars intrigue me, constellations millions of years old. They change you know; the constellations I mean. We see the stars of our ancestors, just a bit differently—the tilt of our Earth, orbital drift, I don’t know….just, just as we change with time, so does the sky.

Hours later, their dad is home, and they’ve finally surrendered, bellies full, homework checked, hair lightly scented with strawberry shampoo. They dream, I hope, of wishing on falling stars, and I settle into my leather chair, computer fully charged. For now, three ibuprofen and a hot bath later, my headache is at bay, my curiosity remains though.

I Google:  is it dark in space?

Then:  why is space dark?

I find:  http://www.universetoday.com/75893/why-is-space-black/

and then,

“You might wonder with all the stars shining, why is space black? The answer is that in space, sunlight or any kind of star light does not have anything from which to bounce off. We see color because light is reflected back to our eyes. Normally if an object can reflect back all light we see the color white. However when we see the different colors we know about it is because only one part of the visible spectrum of light is reflected back to our eyes and the rest is absorbed by the object we are absorbing.”

There’s no one to pretend for, no one to discuss it with. Jason’s in the shower, so it’s just me and the dog….he’s asleep. I consider, then remember. There was a day, last year, when things were particularly trying at work. I’d taken on too much and refused to drop any of the balls I had in the air. I’d driven to work, over the mountain through fog—unable to glean much motivation from my surroundings. But, as tired as I was on my return home, the same drive, only in reverse, the sun shone as if for the first time on the newly unfolded leaves of spring. That night, I made a post, “The only significant difference between a day of clouds and a day of sun comes in the lighting...so too in life.”

And I sat, and sit, in my big leather chair, as I so often do with my computer on my lap. I think about clouds and sun, darkness and light, and stars. Some days I have headaches so bad that the only cure is sleep, but if I sleep, I miss so much of life. In darkness, there is comfort, the comfort of rest, reflection, rejuvenation. I realize that even when pain clouds the time I have with my children, my family, the day is the same, only the lighting, or my perception of the lighting, changes. Some stars shine so brightly that they can be seen, even in the daylight….like our sun, but of course, I’m not talking about the sun.

 

Copyright © 2012. Carrie Ellen Campbell. All Rights Reserved. http://carriellencampbell.blogspot.com. Please respect Carrie's intellectual property. Sharing blog posts is permitted, but no part of this material may be copied, downloaded, reproduced, or printed without express written consent. Contact Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.