We're Not Alone

My friend Mike recently posted a link to an article that discusses the journey of the Voyager 1 space probe, standing on the threshold of leaving our solar system. Reading about this mission and the journey of this little 35 year-old explorer, now 11 billion miles from earth, is mind boggling. To me, it's not the science or the technology. To me it's the realization that, the further it travels, the smaller we get.

I walked outside with my dog last night. One thing about living in a small town situated pretty much smack dab in the middle of nowhere is the visibility of the night sky. The impact of urban light is minimal and on a night like last you can see the benefits of your relative isolation. It's not like Hawaii, with its almost claustrophobic dome of stars, or standing outside in the middle of western Nebraska where the blanket extends from horizon to horizon. But here, last night, in my backyard, looking up through the oaks now void of literally every last scrap of foliage, the stars were like didamonds. The constellations stood out in the cold night sky like pieces displayed in a jeweler's case on black velvet.

I didn't see a falling star last night and I didn't see anything like a UFO. I sure as heck didn't see Voyager. I'm fairly confident there was no extraterrestrial abduction suffered as I was back in the house and fully clothed in less than 10 minutes real time. But, looking up at that sky, that collection of stars, and peering into that otherwise dark void was to see infinity. It was enough to recognize the infinitesimally small scale of this often troubled planet. It was enough to make me certain the depth of existence is not only certain, but immeasurable. And, finally, it was enough to make me recognize just how fortunate I am to have relative peace and abundant happiness on the small patch of ground I occupy on this planet, parked here in the infinite expanse of the universe. It was, to use the word free of any hyperbole, awesome.