On summer nights when I was a kid, my dad used to drive my brother and I to the bayside beach where we would lay on the hood of our beast of a ’77 Thunderbird, the brown roof striped with silicon repair efforts, and gaze at the stars for what seemed like hours.
In a place so remote the Milky Way awaited nearly every viewing, the stars blanketed me in brilliance and offered a refuge from the world.
I remember looking from left to right one night, following the horizon, and having the sensation that if I walked far enough, I could experience the roundness of the earth, feel its curve under my feet.
As time went on, I made it to the beach for star viewing less and less. Dad was not as tolerant of the cold and late hours, friends were few and far between, and I feared what could happen if I went alone.
At twenty-nine, I now sometimes go almost an entire year between star gazings, so I welcome the opportunity to return to the Cape Cod sky.
In my own world, I generally find there is too much – too much ground light, too many clouds, too much busyness.
My feet firmly planted on the ground, I forget there is a sky above. I can go weeks without looking up.
I march in a fog of ambition, forgetting the sky is even there, a million to-do-lists running through my head and a tight knot of anxiety in my stomach.
At times though, something gets in my blood and tilts my head upwards, reminding me to dream and teaching me to live.
Spirit breath brings me back to my roots, back to life-giving illuminations reminding me who I am, from whence I come, and the age-old story God is unfolding in my life.
I find my footing while my gaze remains upward.
I want to remember the sky is there and look up to see it.