With sticky, putty-like stuff, I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above my bed. A year or so ago, I had bought these stars for a creative endeavor, but my idea hadn't worked out. Last week I decided I either needed to throw them away or put them on the bedroom ceiling.
At night I look at these stars and wish that I was motivated enough to stand on the bed and move some of them.
That one would look better over there. I don't like the pattern those four make. But I don't get up. I leave the stars where they are. I could form a constellation with them, but I'm not all that interested in that. I wonder if God debated the location of each of his stars.
I remember waking during the first night of my first wilderness quest. Alone out in the silent desert, I looked up at the bits of light strewn across the immense night sky, and I wept. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much ceilings, windows and walls separated me from life. As I took in the silent hugeness of the night, I remembered who I was — a creature connected to all life. I wept in sadness for all the years of forgetting, and in gratitude for that moment of remembering.
My last quest was in 2011, and I have not slept outside since. The stars above my bed, though a fun addition to a blank ceiling, have no depth, no life. They don't inspire awe. I sleep surrounded by walls and windows, under a roof that holds in the heat. We animals are not made for this.
Excuse me. It's dark out, and though the city lights remove all but the brightest of stars from my view, I think I need to go listen to the night sky and, once again, remember my place in this universe.
