Breathless

I reunited with an old friend this past weekend. Dug my heels into clumps of earth, dipped my toes in icy white-tipped waters, and felt the wind tangle my hair. I miss nature. I never get enough of it in this mid-Michigan suburb surrounded by hotels and 7-11s.

Those who know me well can admit that I have almost a fanatical connection to nature. I'm a part of civilized society long enough to get some money and pay the bills when I can, but when there's no strings holding me back, I can list a million places I would rather be than in doors.

Standing by the cliffs of La Jolla, watching the sunset to try and get another glimpse of that infamous green flash as the sun dips beneath the deep blue horizon.

In the mountains. No matter how far I stretch my arms, all I grasp at is air and branches, and cliffs and peaks for my voice to reverberate off for miles.

Sadly, though, modern camping in Michigan is not as it should be. I haven't gone camping, *REAL* camping in years, where you're surrounded with bugs or against a foaming ravenous river, you can't see a single tent next to you in the dense woods, where you have to lock up your food because of bears and it's maybe thirty degrees at the warmest at nights. In Michigan, they have about three roads, each with campsites lining them on both sides. All squished together. If you have those obnoxious neighbors who like to blast their XM radio, or *you* are those annoying neighbors, then there's no where for anyone to go to get away from you. A location designed for us to escape our creature comforts and the hassles of life is oddly ridden with them.

During the middle of the night, I was having a hard time to sleep. The neighbors on the north side of us were blasting their bass in their stereo well after midnight and there was something amusing happening over there that must have been worth a nonstop barrage of echoing laughter. When I finally decided to give up on sleep, I stood up and stretched in Chris's dad's fifth wheeler. As soon as I reached for a bottle of water and turned back to face my bed, I noticed Chris and his brother Jeff were both sitting up, watching me. None of us could sleep, for various reasons. I was surprised to learn I was the only one who could hear the bass, but either way, we all stood up and walked out of the cabin. We took a stroll to the restrooms. It gave us an excuse to stretch our legs.

My dad had been calling me for a few days before hand to talk about a meteor shower. When there was nothing else to do but go back to the camp site and face the neighbors, Chris and Jeff and I wandered away from all the sites pressed on top of one another and went up to the edge of the camping grounds, where a steep cliff with a thirty, maybe forty foot drop and jagged rocks met a beach at its base and Lake Michigan, stretched out like blue infinity. There was a bench towards the edge of the cliffs and a stunningly clear view of the stars, with no trees or lights to intrude. We huddled together for protection from the dipping temperature and craned our necks to see just how many shooting stars we could count. We saw one that lasted longer than two seconds.

Every twenty seconds, or so I've heard, that's what scientists calculated to be how often a meteorite strikes Earth. Since the dawn of time, every twenty seconds, a meteorite has struck Earth. Think of how many pieces are burried out there, in the rock and soil, that are impossible to uncover by now. Twenty seconds? What can happen in twenty seconds? Falling, skinning your knee? Kissing someone and never wanting to let go? A mistake you may spend your life regretting?

Most all of these shooting stars don't even take twenty seconds. More like a second, perhaps two in a brilliant flash of light. It all happens within less than the time span it takes to inhale and exhale. Think of a heartbeat. With every beat of your heart, that's as long as it takes for something magnificent and completely outside our control to streak across the sky and shower us in its celestial glory. I can understand how certain things never got out of fashion, how we all gather every year to see fireworks because people are dazzled by explosions and pretty colors. It leaves me breathless to see the natural display of lights and colors that the sky has to show us for itself.

We're small. Breathtakingly small. A speck in an existence that's filled with planets and stars that take so long to reach us visually that they could be gone and us not realize it. I'm always bemused when I think about all the things that people struggle with. Jobs, money, relationships, friends. All these necessities. They are necessities; we can't live our lives without them, or face humiliation, ruin, poverty, and even worse, loneliness. And yet, in the grand scheme of the universe, none of that matters. Even if I can't get that job I want in Denver, Polaris is still going to be there, connected through a thread of stars to Ursa Minor to remind me always where I can look up and find North. Every fall and winter, Orion's belt is going to be there. The sun and moon will keep revolving around the earth, keeping the tides and the cycle of growth and decay in check. Tomorrow, we could all be gone, and still, life will go on for everything else as usual.

I don't know how many people sought to escape their troubles on this camping trip. But if I can look up at the stars and know that for certain, no matter what I'm going through, it'll never b e the end of things, then I can at least feel somewhat accomplished when returning to society and the suburbs and 7-11s.

I was able to sleep more soundly in the fifth wheel when we returned. I closed my eyes and was able to feel all the tension in my muscles melt away as I lapsed into a restful slumber, never once before feeling so grateful at being so small.