Opportunities & Reminders

Whenever I have a day that I'd rather put behind me, I try to reconnect with Creation in some form or another. So it was with the evening of 12th of May, 2006. This day was a tough one for me. Between medical problems and various personal issues, it was just a day I'd sooner forget.
The night, on the other hand, was certainly worthy of memory.
It was dryer than usual, the humidity having taken an unexpected drop. The sky, as a result, was crystal clear. The only real let down of the evening was the fact that it was a full moon. Normally, to many people who don't spend many hours looking at distant, celestial objects, a full Moon is a thing of beauty, a marvelous sight. For astronomers, amateur and otherwise, it is problematic. Not so for me; there is still enough of a romantic in me to find that beauty regardless. I just have to shift what I plan to search for.
Which brings me to the first point I want to raise. One of the chief popularizers of amateur astronomy was a 19th century Anglican priest named Thomas William Webb (there is, in fact, an astronomical organization named for him, The Webb Society). He wrote one of the first truly popular works for the average person, "Celestial Objects For Common Telescopes". It's a wonderfully written work, and in fact is still readily available today. One of the points raised in his book was when to observe -
"Do not lose time in looking for objects under unfavourable
circumstances. A very brilliant night is often worthless for planets
or double stars, from its blurred or tremulous definition; it will
serve, however, for grand general views of bright groups or rich
fields, or for irresolvable nebulae, which have no outlines to be
deranged: a hazy or foggy night will blot out nebulae and minute
stars, but sometimes defines bright objects admirably; never condemn
such a night untried. Twilight and moonlight are often advantageous,
from the diminution of irradiation."

The point he was making was that no opportunity should be lost, and on a night such as the one on the 12th of May, I'd have been much more depressed to know that I missed an opportunity; "no, it's too bright a Moon."
Silly indeed!
Jupiter, the largest of the known planets (in our Solar System) was glorious, its four largest moons readily visible, even in the small instrument I was using. It was so clear and steady that its darker atmospheric belts were clearly visible at times. I even managed a look at an even more distant and faint object, a globular cluster (a large group of stars in a roughly spherical shape) known as M13, in the constellation of Hercules, even with that full Moon lighting the night sky.
I wouldn't have been able to see these that night if I hadn't taken the opportunity. I would have missed a great night for observing. The point that Rev. Webb was bringing up about astronomy also applies to us on a day to day basis. It is very, very easy to overlook opportunities. We want to turn our backs when things are not perfect.
But what is perfect? More to the point, how many things do we miss because things are not as pleasant as we'd wish? There is beauty in everything, lessons to be learned at any point; we simply have to be open to the experience. By turning our backs or choosing to wait until everything is just right, we miss out on important things in life. The lesson is... there will always be lessons. Don't let them slip by.
The second point I want to make is altogether different. As I was looking at Jupiter, I discovered that I wasn't alone in the night.
Somewhere, off in the swamp adjacent to Goodby's Lake, a low 'hoo" cut through the night air. Some people would have frozen; it was a haunting sound, after all. Being raised on a farm, though, I knew the sound for what it was, a great horned owl. Somewhere, out there amidst the pines and cypress trees, an owl was making his presence known. I stopped for a moment, trying to judge the distance between the big bird and I, but to no avail. Yet, there were times when the sound could have been coming from a few yards away, it seemed. It was a reminder, though, that no matter what we do, we are never truly alone.
The signature on my email account reflects this as well, "I have loved the stars too dearly to be fearful of the night", a stanza from a poem by Sarah Williams, "The Old Astronomer To His Pupil". For whenever I think that I am lost in the world, whenever things are at their worst, whenever I feel alone, I just have to go out and look up, around, and pay attention. The sound of the owl tonight was just another facet of that, albeit an audible reminder.
We, whether we wish to acknowledge it or not, are never truly alone.