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The bright and dedicated astronauts who rode Artemis II to the dark side of the moon have expressed profound appreciation for their country and the scientific community which afforded them the opportunity to see the earth from a distance greater than ever before. There, from opposite windows inside their little floating capsule, they beheld both the magnificence of our blue planet and the unfathomable darkness of space.
Yet they have been unable to express anything profound about the journey. Their statements about love and the great accomplishments of mankind seem banal, uninspired. Of course they are astronauts and not poets, but I expected something more meaningful than "Amaze, amaze, amaze!"
A few years ago, the great actor/writer William Shatner (AKA Captain Kirk) responded thoughtfully after his short space voyage aboard Bezos’s New Shepherd rocket. Shatner, then 90 years old, volunteered because he wanted to contemplate the mysteries of the universe - black holes, novas, etc. Initially, he looked out from the dark window, away from earth. What he felt, however, did not evoke a sense of fascination and discovery: "I saw a cold, dark, black emptiness...It was deep, enveloping, all-encompassing. I turned back toward the light of home. I could see the curvature of Earth, the beige of the desert, the white of the clouds and the blue of the sky. It was life. Nurturing, sustaining, life. Mother Earth. Gaia. And I was leaving her."
The cult classic film Gattaca offers an even more intriguing perspective on the outer space experience. Ethan Hawk plays a "genetically inferior" human who has outwitted the master-race and fulfilled his ambition to become an astronaut. In the end, as his ship heads toward Saturn, he alludes to a theory of the origins of the universe: "For someone who was never meant for this world, I must confess I’m suddenly having a hard time leaving it. Of course, they say every atom in our bodies was once part of a star. Maybe I’m not leaving ... maybe I’m going home."
All this deep thinking comes to mind because of something that happened recently in a supermarket involving someone dear to me. I'll call her Sarah, out of respect for her closely guarded sense of privacy. Sarah had been a school teacher her entire adult life. Since her retirement, she has become increasingly introverted and reclusive. Shopping is one of the very few public activities she still enjoys.
She was in the fresh produce section when a middle aged man approached. He asked her if she was Miss [Sarah] from the old elementary school. At first Sarah was flustered, and it seemed she would run away down an aisle with her cart. Instead, she nodded and smiled. The man was happy to explain that she was his third grade teacher, and that he remembered her fondly. This led to an animated conversation, during which she seemed remarkably youthful.
Most of us know someone like Sarah, someone whose ties to the real world have become increasingly tenuous. This is especially hard when it is a loved one who has partially let go, and who seems sometimes to be adrift in that space outside Shatner’s dark window. We fear for them, and for ourselves.
There is no medication or prayer that can slow the passage of time. Despite attempts to divide it into equal sections, measured in minutes, hours, rotations, revolutions, etc., the truth is that time accelerates, and the closer we get to the end, the faster it goes. The best we can do for each other is something like what that man in the supermarket did for Sarah, which is to embrace the part of the living soul that remains. To illuminate something good in this world. To shine a harbor light from an island in a black sea. To foster faith that somewhere out there is a light so great as to dwarf the darkness of the universe.
Peter Alan Howard is the author of Rosebud Dreamworld, a novel for young and old adults.