(Dis) Orientation: 6. Horizons
In which we conclude with a story about orientation. This is the final section in a six part series on how I get my bearings in the night sky, and in life.
Author’s note: this is the final post in a six part series, previously titled “Lost in Space.” You can find the first section here, the second section here, the third section here, the fourth section here, and the fifth section here. I also hope to post the full revised piece soon.
Many of my formative memories involve beach walks of all seasons: warm summertime wanderings, where we wade in the water, our steps sending shimmering droplets up our calves while the waves froth and recede around our ankles. Crisp fall walks where you lean into the wind, thinking that if you just spread your arms a little farther, you might fly, and escape the biting of the blowing sand and your lack of foresight in choosing the lighter, you realize now inadequate, jacket. Winter walks, fully bundled, with wind whipped red cheeks and that crunchy iced sand underfoot, swirled with snow like some butternut ice cream. And spring walks: can you feel the world awakening? The birds crying overhead, the water an inviting crystal green blue, calling to you, though you know it’s not yet time, lest you burn from its still icy touch.
Part of the adventure was the treasure hunt. You never knew what you might find washed up on shore, or sparking in the shallows, or deposited in the great flood of each frothing wave. There were always rocks of all colors and shapes to examine, shells to show each other, and smooth speckled stones to slip into your pocket for safe keeping. Petoskey stones, fossilized coral of an earlier time, were a special Michigan treat, their hexagonal patterns a beautiful reminder of ages long past. Or if you were lucky you might find a piece of sea glass, some bit of a bottle or other glass shard, its cloudy blue color, suggestive, its edges long smoothed by the sand and the waves. You’d keep caressing it, smooth and cool it your pocket, fragrant to your fingers, like the hand of lover once lost, now found.
I still encounter these treasures, rare flashes of light, refracted, as through a diamond ring. Like this past January, digging out my old gym bag as part of my annual attempt at a new me, I found in the bottom a smooth piece of driftwood. Some sort of peg, it’s perhaps three inches long and a half inch in diameter, and nearly white from years of weathering. It had been a small gift from my mom, I think. She had a knack for finding these treasures, and would slip them into our things, little reminders that we are loved. Like the glass, driftwood was a special treasure – its surface so smooth to the touch it was relaxing just to look at it. And beneath its surface, a fascination. In what woods did it grow? Who felled its tree? Who shaped it to a useful form? What weight has it born, what laughter, what anger, what fear has it known? Was it once part of The Griffin, or some other unfortunate vessel bested by the greatness of the Great Lakes? What wreck, what story, what confluence of circumstance and nature brought this little stick here, to me, now?
As I hold it in my hand, I feel in it the soft touch of a squirrel, and the hard cold of a Lake Michigan wave. And I think about how in order to be found it had to grow, be cut down, reshaped, repurposed, lost at sea, carried by currents, tossed by waves, buried in sand, uncovered, held, gifted, held.
Now, the highlights of my week are the times I can break out and bike down to Montrose beach, and walk out to the beacon on the pier. Sometimes it’s calm. Other days the wind is so strong it blows me over. Sometimes the waves crash in to the pier, other days they flow out, away. All days I like to look at the lights of the downtown skyscrapers to the south, the tall condos of Edgewater neighborhood to the north, and wonder at all the living they represent. Then I like to turn and look out over the water to that wide curved horizon, and wonder at it too. I try to imagine sailing over that crest, perhaps back toward Michigan, my first home, or perhaps someplace new, north, south, west. It’s a thrilling and terrifying thought. Perhaps I’ll learn to sail this summer.
As the twilight starts to fade I start to make out stars over the lake – it’s slightly easier here than the rest of the city. I start to make out the patterns, Orion’s belt, his shoulder, and that must be Sirius. Oriented, I feel the sudden elation, as when meeting an old friend. I know where I am.
It’s still cold, but the winter constellations, in their bright glory, are to the west - the spring constellations are rising. I tighten my jacket and smile. Despite my red cheeks, I see in the sky the first hints of spring.