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.
No comments:
Post a Comment