It’s ten after one. IN THE MORNING. And, as I type this in our cozy library, I feel like a stranger in a strange land. True, I am battling a migraine—my second this week—but this strangeness goes beyond anything pharmaceutical or medical.
No. This strangeness is pure astronomy. And that it is available every night—usually without my active acknowledgement--is pretty amazing to me.
What is it about a planet’s sun slipping below the horizon that leaves things feeling so different? Why is it that, when shadows are nudged away by the swath of darkness, I am left feeling out of place in this place I otherwise call “home?”
I seldom venture downstairs after 10 p.m. And when I do, I feel like a guest in my own house, conscious of every squeak in the floor, awkward as I settle into a chair next to our French doors, certain that a marauding stranger lurks just outside, watching me in my shabby t-shirt and sweats.
But if I brave it and venture outdoors in these wee hours, I always find comfort in the night sky, the constellations calming me in their unwavering commitment to shape. I love the ancient light of the stars, never failing to find me, despite all the years between us. And, like so many before me, I am anchored by their presence.
Things seem older and more foreign to me by the time the 10 o’clock news wraps up. Our clock louder, as it ticks off the seconds passing. And those seconds themselves, somehow slowed down and amplified.
I will work my way through this pain in my head and the off-setting imbalance of the wee hours, Finn faithfully curled up at my feet. And maybe, some time between now and the first yawn of the morning’s sun, I’ll make my peace with this other world, blanketed in darkness and wrapped in mystery.
Even now, as I type this, I feel a sense of warm comfort moving up me. And, already, I feel calmer, less strange in this veiled land.
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