An unexpected tap on the shoulder

Except maybe to notice whether it’s cloudy or not, it’s funny how seldom we look at the sky. It’s easy to take it for granted, especially since it’s always up there. Sure, the moon changes, but it changes in such consistent ways we barely notice. I’m sure a good share of us, at any time, are completely unaware what phase the moon is in.

But sometimes, the sky insists.

Sunrises and sunsets are the first thing I think of. They shine with an amazing variety of colors and send many different impressions. Now and then, the sun hangs in the sky like a giant, bright red ball. No clouds, no apparent tint around it—just that giant red disk growing larger as it gets closer to the horizon. Other times, though, it sends out rays which streak the clouds. The shades of pink or orange or red are enough to make you gasp in wonder.

I’ve mentioned before how I often try to capture the image of the day’s sunset by taking a picture. I have quite a collection of sunsets and sunrises. When people see them, they usually comment on how beautiful they are.

Nice as the photos might be, though, they are only a reminder of what the actual event was like. Even a mural would only begin to imitate half a world of light and color.

And then there is the moon—a whole heavenly body which somehow seems to have a friendly, smiling face. It rises and sets according to a schedule most of us never study. Sometimes it stops us in our tracks, sometimes it jumps out from behind a building or tree to surprise us. Though modern science allows us to understand its glow is simply reflected from the sun, it’s easy to recognize why other cultures attributed it to magic and mystery.

No matter how well we believe we understand it, it makes no difference when we see it suspended in the sky, sometimes claiming full possession, sometimes outlining the clouds.

Suddenly having our attention called to the moon is like feeling an unexpected tap on our shoulders, then being handed a gift as we turn to find out why.

And then there are the northern lights.

It would be awfully easy not to notice them. I had been driving for half an hour or more on a very dark stretch of road the other night when my husband called me. After asking where I was and learning I was driving, he asked “Can you see the northern lights?”

I was about to say no when I looked to my left and realized a subtle, pulsing curtain was coloring much of the sky to the north. How long had I been driving beneath that meandering miracle and not even known it?

Here, too, the science is fairly straightforward. Beams of energy have traveled 93 million miles from the sun’s surface and reached our planet’s magnetic defense system, where they are emitting light as they are dissipated downward and outward.

But you can’t blame long ago cultures for attributing those shifting, moving waves of light to some capricious—and even occasionally childish—beings who have power over forces so mighty, they have little cause to take notice of humankind.

Almost always, meteors, too, seem like a gentle game. Quick, darting beams of light which are gone before you can show your companions where to look, it is almost as if we are at the bottom of a pond watching the ripples form as some child overhead tosses in an occasional stone. Cultures thousands of years ago did not know what caused them, but they took the time to record when, and from what part of the sky they tended to come. Thus we have the Perseids, which, in a way, seem to come from the constellation Perseus from mid-July to August,  and the Orionids, seeming to come from Orion all through the month of October.  According to one online source, there are well over 100 documented showers, each with a history of high or low volume. A little research will tell you much more.

And now, the item which prompted all this reflection. A comet whose name is most conveniently shortened to Atlas will be visible slightly above the western horizon about 45 minutes after sunset for the next few weeks. I tried to get a look at it on Oct. 12, the night it was supposed to be the closest it will come to earth—about 44 million miles. Unfortunately, clouds made that impossible. Still, astronomers suggest it will become more and more evident as our viewing angle changes and we get a look at its tail.

You can easily find out more online if you wish to see the comet—it’s being mentioned by numerous forms of media. It’s moving at about 42 miles per second, but will still be visible to the unaided eye for about a month. Astronomers also point out it will be more than 80,000 years before the comet comes this close to the sun (and incidentally planet earth) again.

Don’t let the dropping temperatures keep you from having a look. Like so many of the wonders which go on far above our heads, it might be one of those experiences which defy description.