Sometimes a calm sky is too big and empty, filling me with an almost painful sense of smallness and futility. It's easy to feel lost, alone and frightened, adrift in an infinite sea of stars. I know I ought instead to feel thrilled that in such an immense universe, God still thought to make me and the life I know and love. Sometimes I can feel that. . . But at other times I just feel sad, somehow.
A night like last night, on the other hand, seems to have a life and personality of its own. The awing enormity of space is gently veiled by silvered cloud, and the wind calls you back to earth. Roaring in the trees, caressing your skin (albeit with a chill hand), ruffling your hair-- it fills your senses to the brim. It's impossible to feel alone, because the world around you is alive with motion and sound. Instead of feeling dwarfed and forgotten, I am more than ever a part of things. I'm not sure why. Maybe just because it seems almost as though this moment, so full of things I love, was made just for me to experience it. (What? Not humble enough? Go back and read about how the stars make me feel insignificant and puny. (g))
It felt as though the sky had turned into an ocean-- not a terribly original comparison, but all the same, true. (I think it was the wind that did it.) All the elements were temporarily melded together, indistinguishable, and even though I was miles from the sea, I could hear the crashing waves.
It was beautiful-- one of those moments I'd like to capture so that I could relive it at will. I tried to capture it on film (or whatever the digital equivalent of film is-- pixels?), but I had very limited success.
This is something more like it-- or this-- or this (but without the glowing ember of a volcano on the horizon. ;o)
What a beautiful world. . .
