Prelude
Hello, dear Feelers— we’re nearing the end of February. I’m not sure how many times I can say time is barreling on at a rapid clip before I stop commenting and just accept its rapid acceleration. However, this is not the time. This is not that day. I’m going to marvel over the almost imperceptible squeak that is February. Bear with me.
Yesterday evening, Mauro and did our usual three-mile walk around the river in the oddly balmy, 82° weather. I admitted that I didn’t know what to write for this week’s prelude; I already wrote the poem, but have liked tying the poems and preludes together thematically and was at a loss. Mauro told me his dad shared something interesting today about the weather and space— maybe I could use that factoid as a jumping-off point. His dad heard there had been some activity in space that caused the almost summer-like projected temperatures for this week. A very cool factoid, if you ask me; he just couldn’t remember what it was called. Whatever it was, it dovetailed perfectly with the week’s poem and I set out to research the weather-affecting space incident. I googled. I tried different search term combinations: why is it so hot this week space effect; space thing that affects weather; warmer temps in south + space; the list goes on. I asked Mauro to help me look it up. We searched silently for a few more minutes before Mauro announced he was also coming up empty-handed. Yes, there’s a warming trend moving through the south this week, and a crazy snowstorm up north, but no news of the unknown space weather effect. What was his dad referencing? What was I going to write about?
I realized that this little exchange itself was the perfect ground for a prelude. For tens of thousands of years, humans have done everything in their power to understand that vast cosmos hanging overhead and make meaning of our place in the unending blackness of space. Not unlike Mauro’s dad and, subsequently, Mauro and me attempted our own rudimentary inquiry into the cosmos and came away confused. Whether there was indeed some space event that affected our weather here on earth or it was heresay, we sought, like our ancestors, to understand the heavens.
I like to imagine myself thousands of years ago, staring up at the night sky. What could I have possibly thought about that shifting, effervescent view, full of twinkling lights, wonder, and untold mysteries? I can see groups of early humans taking shifts to study the slow-changing heavens, connecting whatever relevant dots they could, before patiently waiting for patterns or events to reoccur. Was the night sky more active in the distant past? It was certainly more visible, given the lack of light pollution. As we evolved, we relied more and more on the data we gathered from the sky, from adjusting our farming practices to accurate navigation. The night sky became our constant companion. It’s not hard to see why we understood the cosmos to be created and controlled by gods—how else do you explain that kind of infinity? I have so much affection for our distant counterparts and their sense-making. Laying under a pitch-black sky strikes enough wonder in my heart that I consider its godly origins, too.
Here, we meet the poem, which predated the above conversations but, as often happens, ended up linking perfectly with the week’s related observations. I’m still amazed by how often the poems and preludes dovetail when I’ve made no prior attempt. Sometimes they close the loop all on their own.
Today’s poem recounts my experience of the night sky from a week ago. It made me consider the provenance of the cosmos and consider the following: if we allow ourselves to dream a bit and slacken the reins of reality, we can have a hand in crafting heaven. Confused? No worries. Just read the poem =) XO, HW
The Poem
Heavencraft
I walked in the evening as the sky alchemized into crushed blue silk. I did not expect anything other than a starless city night. Cresting the bridge, passing cars switched on their high beams. Above the river hovered two buoyant lights, flickering and bobbing like frustrated comets. A family was lighting those floating paper lanterns and releasing them in pairs. Another lantern glided up, forming a lazy triangle with the others, their guiding flames throwing purple and indigo before finally blackening into ash or stardust or nothing at all. Did I pray for this? I needed those incandescent angels so much that night I walked onto the grass, laid down, and stared up. They formed foreign constellations and gave their best heavenly bodies. On a starless city night, they told me that heaven-craft is not beholden to the gods. If you cannot find the North Star, you can send one up of your own. As many as you need. They will lead you home.
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...what's also amazing (like that Lake City night sky) is that you continue to be so prosaic after undertaking a new career and with your weekly schedule overhauled! Bravo!
You echoed Rudyard Kipling's 'When earth's last picture is painted...' well in suggesting "if we allow ourselves to dream a bit and slacken the reins of reality, we can have a hand in crafting heaven...."
LoVeAlWaYs, M