At precisely 5:45 a.m., I walk down the steps of my home for my morning run. It is still dark, the sky looks as if it is a layer cake, with shades of sapphire sandwiched between raven black. The stars are making noise overhead, the constellations a welcome glimmer. As I bend down to tie my shoe, my neck cranes upward and I notice the Little Dipper. Seven bright stars hold hands together and its presence mesmerizes me.

Its effect pushes me to reflect. I am not certain why I feel this way. I’ve never had an affinity for space, always dismissing the planetarium field trips as a young girl.  But as I revisit the Little Dipper, its radiance acts as a flashlight into my mind. And what I experience before my morning run is an intangible that is impenetrable.

And that is important. So far, the thirties have provided questions that I thought my experiences prepared me to answer, but I’ve found that there is cloudy film that veils my innermost conscious. At times, my footing is unstable, vacillating between who I should be and what I am. I bounce between these two worlds, boomeranging into an oblivion, not understanding the tug and pull between doubt and certainty, acceptance and rejection, happiness and grief, disappointment and gratitude. Often times, I am dangling, one foot on the tightrope, while the other is trying to scoop air.

What prevents me from completely falling is the safety net that stares at me before my morning run. There is consistency, the knowledge that life happens even when you are not looking. The stars will arrange themselves day after day into a pattern and will persist and transcend.  As I finish my run, light welcomes me. The Little Dipper is gone, but I still envision it. The certainty of its permanence transcends the blurriness of my own soul.


Does nature help uplift you? What are things that give you comfort, that you believe are permanent despite what is happening in your world? Have you ever felt a connection to space when you didn’t expect it?

Image by jdurchen