Why I Still Look Up
In a world that increasingly gazes downward, into the glow of our screens, I find myself drawn upward, toward the vast expanse of the night sky. It’s an instinct that feels almost counterintuitive in this digital age, where so much of life is lived in the rectangular frames of our devices. Yet, there’s something deeply human about tilting one’s head back and letting the universe have its way with your perspective.
I remember the first time I truly saw the stars. I was a child, lying on my back in the grass behind our house, far enough from town that the streetlights didn’t interfere. My father had pointed out constellations—Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major—and told stories about their mythologies. But it wasn’t until I lay there alone, unguided, that the sky began to speak for itself.
The stars were so numerous they seemed like a spilled jar of glitter across black velvet. Some twinkled furiously, as if trying to catch my eye, while others burned with a steady, quiet intensity. I felt small in that moment, but not in a way that was frightening. It was the kind of smallness that comes from realizing your place in something much larger than yourself.
The Weight of Wonder
As an adult, I’ve come to understand that stargazing isn’t just about looking at stars; it’s about cultivating a sense of wonder. And wonder, I think, is a muscle that needs to be exercised regularly. When we lose touch with it, the world starts to feel heavier, more mundane. There’s a line from a poem I once read: “The universe is not only much stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think.” That strangeness is what draws me back to the sky night after night. It’s in the way a single star can outshine an entire city, or how the light we see from distant galaxies left their sources long before humans even existed. I’ve spent countless hours with my telescope, trying to make sense of it all. And yet, the more I learn, the less I feel like I understand. It’s a humbling experience, but also a liberating one. When you confront the scale of the universe, you’re forced to let go of some of that need for control, for answers.
The Digital Paradox
We live in an age where information is abundant, accessible at the speed of a swipe or a search. And yet, despite this, I find myself feeling more disconnected from the world around me. There’s a paradox here: we’re more informed than ever before, but somehow less attuned to the beauty and mystery that surround us. I’m not advocating for some kind of Luddite rejection of technology. I love gadgets as much as the next person, and I’ve spent my fair share of time coding and tinkering with all manner of devices. But there’s something about stargazing that feels like a necessary counterbalance to all that screen time. When you’re looking up at the stars, you’re reminded of the limits of human ingenuity. No matter how advanced our technology becomes, we’re still just a tiny speck in the grand scheme of things. And that realization—that vulnerability—is something I think we need more of in our lives.
Finding Balance
There’s a phrase I’ve been turning over in my mind lately: “The universe is a mirror.” What does that mean? Maybe it means that what we see when we look up is a reflection of what we carry inside. The vastness, the beauty, the mystery—it’s all there, both in the stars and in ourselves. I don’t stargaze to escape from the world; I do it to feel more connected to it. When I’m lying on my back, staring up at the sky, I’m reminded of how little I truly know—and that’s a relief. It’s okay not to have all the answers. Sometimes, just being present in the questions is enough. There’s also something deeply meditative about stargazing. In an age where our attention is constantly being pulled in a dozen different directions, the stars demand nothing from us. They simply exist, silently, and in that silence, I find peace.
A Final Thought
I know not everyone will share my fascination with the night sky. That’s okay. But I do think we all need something in our lives that reminds us of how small—and how big—we are. For me, it’s the stars. For you, it might be something else entirely. The important thing is to find whatever it is that makes you feel that sense of wonder. As I write this, there’s a meteor shower happening outside my window. It’s nothing spectacular—just a few faint streaks of light every now and then—but it’s enough to stop me in my tracks. Each one is a reminder that the universe is still speaking, if only we take the time to listen. And so I’ll keep looking up, even when the world around me seems determined to look down. Because in those moments of quiet wonder, I find balance. I find perspective. And I find myself.
Stay curious