Witnessing Pluto

I was barely awake this morning when I thought about Pluto. I’ve been following the approach of the New Horizons spacecraft as it nears the “Pluto system” (Pluto and its five known moons), about 3 billion miles and more than 9 years after its launch. The thoroughly amateur astronomer in me was eager to learn the status of the mission, and I knew that the moment of its closest approach would be early this morning. That would be at 7:49 EDT, I recalled … translating that to 9:49 MDT. A bit later, a news alert on my partner’s phone declared that New Horizons had reached Pluto—at 5:49 MST, of course.

I had this instantaneous moment of deep disappointment: “Rats,” I thought (maybe out loud). “I wanted to notice that moment. I wanted to witness it.”

Pretty quickly, I realized that I was awake at the crucial moment. I had even noted the time at 5:45, and I was thinking about Pluto. That made me feel better, but I could still hardly wait to get to my computer to learn more—and I made a mental note not to miss the moment when, at about 8:53 EDT tonight (note to self: that would be 6:53 MST), New Horizons should send a brief signal indicating that it made it safely through the Pluto system. 

All day, as I monitored news about the encounter with one eye, I was also being curious about my early-morning reaction, my peculiar attachment to this event. It’s hardly central to my life, although it's obviously a matter of great interest. Why did it matter whether or not I was awake to witness that moment?

I wasn't wondering about the intensity of my interest in things astronomical. That’s a near-lifelong passion that has waxed and waned over the years but has never been absent. And I wasn’t wondering about my astonishment at the sheer magnitude and precision of the knowledge required to pull off such a feat—with now-old technology, with a target that had never even been seen clearly, a spaceship launched almost 10 years ago toward an impossibly remote and tiny moving object (smaller than our moon). (If you want to get a hint of the mind-blowing precision of this shot, described by one scientist as equivalent to hitting a hole in one with a golf shot that travels from New York to LA, check out this graphic). That’s definitely astonishing enough to warrant some serious interest, not hard to explain at all.

Besides, there are plenty of things to make this an especially noteworthy happening for me: the lead instigator and investigator for the project is at the Southwest Research Institute in Boulder, and bunches of CU students have worked on the project over the years. And then there’s Pluto’s mythical status—the planet (OK, dwarf planet) so small and far away that even Hubble can’t get a clear picture of it, the planet that was named by a child and that soon became the namesake of Mickey Mouse’s dog. How could I not feel some attachment to Pluto? (OK, so lots of people don’t … but it makes sense for me.)

But none of that is curious at all. No, the question that puzzled was this: Why was it so important to me that I be conscious of that precise moment when the spacecraft arrived at Pluto? That I “witness” it?

That question was in the back of my mind through the day as I hovered in the news and did my day's work. I kept returning to this answer: I think that, at least in part, it’s about age. In that moment, as in many these days, I was acutely aware that singular events won’t be happening indefinitely for me. And I don’t want to miss them as they come along. Pluto provided an occasion for me to look (again) at that part of my aging experience: missing things matters more to me. Even missing apparently unimportant things like the Pluto flyby.

In recent years, I’ve noticed a certain nostalgia, even regret, that has to do with experiences that passed without my paying (enough) attention. I actually wrote about this here a long time ago, and it keeps happening. For instance, I might recall a place I visited, a hike I took, a forest or a sunset I saw, a time with a friend, a physical challenge met—so many things that I know I experienced but that I don’t feel like I really noticed, actually witnessed. In retrospect, I find myself wishing that I had known it would be my last time being there, doing that, whatever it was, so I could have honored it more. Pluto’s very rare moment was reminiscent of those now rather frequent moments.

As I think about it, I believe I have a tendency to not notice experiences as they pass by—an unfortunate penchant under any circumstances, but especially lamentable as I grow old, when the opportunities to do it again, whatever it might be, are increasingly rare. It's good to have my attention drawn to this issue, even if it takes a (dwarf) planet to do it.

Coincidentally, this morning a friend, with whom I’ve talked about this general theme, sent me this cartoon that describes the feeling well.  

I know that New Horizons’ encounter with Pluto is not a life-changing event (for me) and that it may even seem trivial as an example to make this larger  point. But that’s part of the point—how seemingly “trivial” moments can carry a certain magic, if they matter (for whatever reason) and if we take the time to witness them. I think that’s where my momentary regret came from this morning: it mattered to me, and I feared I’d missed it. I don’t want to do that too often, because I don’t want too many regrets about missed singular experiences. Obviously, there will be many, far more important such moments. I’m grateful to Pluto for this reminder to notice them, however trivial or singular.

As for the New Horizons flyby, I had my phone set to signal me at 6:53 MDT this evening so I could check on the spacecraft's well-being. Just after 7:00, I saw a news flash that New Horizons had “called home,” right on schedule.

I’ll keep following it in the days to come. If you’re in the Boulder area and would like to join in that process, Fiske Planetarium on the CU campus will be hosting a couple of public events later this week where you can learn more—and also see some of the pictures being sent back across billions of miles.

I’ll be there, on time, MDT.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2015. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post. 

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Star stuff

When I first launched this blog, I named it “Retirement in the Mix” because it seemed (and still seems) like my retirement includes such a lovely and complicated mix of experiences. This past few days has been just like that—a lovely mix. As I was thinking about how to tease some theme from these seemingly separate events, it struck me that there is a link … although it brings yet another ingredient into the mix. First the connection, then the adventures:

As I’ve mentioned before, in late June, I’ll be attending a week-long Smithsonian course in astronomy at Chautauqua in upstate New York. So, I’ve been reading my homework, a book called Origins. As I told my partner when we discussed this recently, although I could not pass a test on the details of astrophysics, I have already learned some things. 

For instance, I have learned how very literally, concretely true it is that we are all connected. To our very core. We are made of the same stuff, all of us. And it's the same stuff that makes up bacteria, redwoods, the earth, the sun, the big dipper, Orion’s belt, the Milky Way, and the Andromeda galaxy. I call it star stuff because it comes, literally, from the stars. Everything is star stuff (except maybe dark matter and dark energy, which remain a mystery even to people who can pass a test on the details of astrophysics). I’m not even talking here about a philosophical or humanistic or religious belief in the common humanity of all people. Those notions clearly fit with what I am saying, and I don’t mean to challenge or dismiss any of them. But what I’m talking about here is that we are really, actually, literally, physically, on a molecular level all made of the same stuff. 

I invite you to ponder on that as I tell you my recent adventures. Stay tuned. A discussion will follow …

Adventure 1: Late last week the stormy weather finally lifted just in time for a walking tour of Boulder’s African-American history. For those of you who know anything about Boulder, you might guess that this is a pretty sparse history. Currently, I learned, Boulder’s African-American citizens account for less than 1% of the city’s total population. Add that fact to the standard historical disinterest in under-represented groups (one form of under-representation, of course, is precisely absence from published histories), and it’s not surprising that little has been written about the history of the small numbers of African-American people who have lived here. What is known seems to be sort of a microcosm of circumstances faced by African-Americans elsewhere.

Despite Boulder’s contemporary reputation as a liberal bastion (which many folks contest, by the way), Blacks have faced much the same discrimination here as they encountered elsewhere in the country. Historically, they were largely shunted into particular, less favorable neighborhoods (in the flood plain), and they built “back houses” in their yards to accommodate black students and other boarders who couldn’t find lodging. For a time, the Ku Klux Klan was very active in Colorado (including in Boulder), and cross burnings were familiar events. In the face of this treatment, some African-American people still saw Boulder as a (relatively) great place to live, while others saw it as yet another bastion of racism, no better than the rest. Some stayed and made their place (and their peace?) in Boulder; others left.

As the leader of this tour was eager to point out, some African Americans who stayed were very successful—providing the dominant majority with “proof” that racism wasn’t (isn’t) really a problem. Not unlike the myth of the “post-racial” society that followed the election of an African-American president.

Adventure 2: On Saturday morning, my partner and I attended a blessing ceremony for a Hmong student who had worked with us both on a year-long research project. A huge group—we estimated maybe 50—of this young woman’s extended family and friends from the local Hmong community had come to celebrate her graduation with a traditional ceremony. Folks of all ages were gathered—from elders to infants, some of them speaking English, some speaking only Hmong, many speaking both.

The event began with congratulatory comments from her older brother and her parents—these were in Hmong, but another student (the celebrant’s cousin, who also worked on the research project) translated for us. We were also invited to speak, the only other people who were. We took this as a great honor, but also worried that it might be based on our privilege as two of the few white people there. Later, it became clear that this honor (as well as an invitation to sit at the head table, otherwise reserved for a few male elders) came from our role as teachers—in this case, teachers who had supported the first person in this family ever to receive a college degree. Their respect for education was evident, and we served as the symbol of that institution.

Next came the blessing ceremony, led by a Hmong shaman. He blessed the parents and the graduate, wiping away bad luck and delivering good luck with chants and gestures. Then, everyone assembled tied strings—one each—around the wrist of the graduate and each of her parents. They will wear these strings, which together reached halfway up their forearms, until they fall off. They’ll serve as an ever-present reminder of the presence and good wishes of their family and community. It was a remarkable event, a reminder of how wonderfully, warmly diverse the world is, right outside our door.

Adventure 3: Saturday night, we went to a concert by “Somethin’ about Lulu” at Swallow Hill. “The Lulus” are a local band, three women who make wonderful (and wonderfully fun) music together. We’ve heard the Lulus many times. In fact, we’ve been sort of groupies for a few years. They just came back from a hiatus, and this concert was a marvelous re-entry. They’re musically really excellent—from belt-it-out torch to gentle folk songs, with stunning, mellow harmony. And, to top it all off, they are really funny. Their tag line is “harmony and hilarity,” and it totally fits. In fact, Saturday night, newly back performing together, they made a few mistakes—which instantly became part of the humor of the show. The audience was in stitches, as were the Lulus, and nobody cared a whit that it all came from a goof. This is not to say that the whole show was a giggle fest. On the contrary. They also played some beautiful, poignant music, some of it written in response to personal loss. In the words and the feel of  some pieces, I heard echoes of the recent Resonance concert, a nod to the impermanence of life and a call to live well the time we have. Their last song, written by Susan Werner, makes this point:

May I suggest

May I suggest

May I suggest to you

May I suggest this is the best part of your life

May I suggest

This time is blessed for you

This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright …

This is a song

Comes from the west to you

Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun

With a request

With a request of you

To see how very short the endless days will run

And when they’re gone

And when the dark descends

Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light

And I suggest this is the best part of your life.

Maybe the most touching song, for me, was a simple piece called “Chopsticks,” written by one band member in honor of her mother. With very few words and some wonderful guitar picking, she managed to evoke all the warmth and sorrow of loving and losing someone very dear. The combination of music like this and a performance laced with hilarity made for one of the most satisfying concert evenings I recall.

Adventure 4: Finally, on Sunday, we went to a Sound Circle concert. I’ve written about Sound Circle before, lots of times (try the “search” box on your right to see how many), so I won’t go on again about their extraordinary musicality and Sue Coffee’s exceptional programming and directing skills. Instead, I’ll note that this concert was the third musical event I’ve been to in recent weeks that carried this message of life’s preciousness and fragility, this time with a particular emphasis. The title of the concert was “Walk Me Through This One,” a line from “Calling all Angels,” one of the songs they performed. The message: we need to care for, be present for one another as we pass through this tenuous life. This concert included a poem by Linda Millemann* (who wrote the words to my favorite song from the recent Resonance concert)—this time spoken rather than sung:

Life Insists

Life insists we love both deeply and lightly

Over and over again

the passing of the seasons showing us how …

I think God knew how hard a lesson

this holding tight, this letting go

would be for all of us.

She pondered how to help

and this is what she chose …

Continuing the concert’s theme, another spoken-word piece pointed to the simultaneous  loneliness of grief and knowledge that we are joined in grief by all others who grieve and who, paradoxically, share the same feelings of profound loneliness in their grief. The need for community at such times is profound, as is, in the best of worlds, it’s presence.

And so, to the promised discussion …

It was during halftime at the Sound Circle concert that I was telling my partner about how we are all star stuff, literally made from the stuff of stars. And only afterward did I realize that this is what unites all these experiences: we are all star stuff. We are so thoroughly interconnected and so thoroughly transient, spending a blink of our cosmic existence in this state we call “life.” We are all star stuff! What can possibly be the point, then, of talk of inferiority and superiority, of us vs. them, of customs that are worthy and those that are not, of people who are worthy and those who are not? One of Sound Circle’s songs spoke to this idea. “How Can I Cry” asked how it is that I, who am privileged in so many ways, can cry for freedom. I cry, it answered, for those who cannot, for the voices that are silenced. We are responsible for one another. We are connected in our very essence. Between the stars that we were and the star stuff we will ultimately become is this life that we must all—all—hold lightly, share well with others, and then let go.

Each of these adventures had its own meaning, its own charm. But diverse as they may seem, they all fit in my growing sense about what we need to know about living, especially as we get old. These experiences combine, it seems to me, in the message that division among us is so pointless and community is so important as we navigate this brief, cherished life. That seems a message worthy of uniting walking histories, community blessings, and all manner of music making.

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*Linda Millemann has recently published a book of her poetry, Along the Way. To order a copy, email her here.