“Why do we do this?”
His question jarred with its accuracy.
“We can look up any night, and see the same stars the ancients did. Webb and Hubble are doing real science. Why even bother?”
I paused in front of that room last year. The sunbeams streamed in with uncomfortable clarity. My “lecture” was off to a strange start, but the conversation sought. (Who wants to be lectured at? I’ll take a big conversation anyday.)
I made the case for beauty, transcendent things, a reminder to look above our cares. He seemed unsatisfied. I couldn’t disagree in words, so rested my case, half-made.
Why do we do this? (Stargaze, in this case.)
I’ve talked spheres and planes with flat earthers ‘round sidewalk astronomy. (They’re friends now.) The conversation seemed vital, but I didn’t know why. None of us are astrophysicists or pilots, and don’t plan to be.
Last evening I hosted another astronomy club on Zoom. The kids from the library breathe life into the dull format of video conferencing, and we always have a rollicking discussion about mythology and solar physics, or astrobiology, or something way smarter than any of us should be able to understand, but do, somehow. We all leave in awe of the universe, a taste of the infinite in our brains, hungering for more.
My powerpoint slides almost dragged us into the mud of tedium, but thankfully, someone asked an off topic question about black holes. I couldn’t resist telling them about “spaghettification”, of how falling into a stellar-mass black hole feet first would stretch you a mile long.
“Would it hurt?” The two brothers were suddenly interested.
“Uh…yeah.”
“I mean, wouldn’t you be killed instantly?”
“Oh, well….hmmm…good point.”
We had to talk Relativity, how time is affected by gravity, how if I strapped a clock to my chest as I fell into the void, it would look like it was ticking slower and slower until it stopped right as I about to fall in, and I’d hover there, forever, from their perspective.
“But for me, I’d fall in and be dead.”
“Would I be able to see you turn into spaghetti?”
“Uhh…probably.”
And then, from my perspective, how their clock on the spaceship would appear to tick faster and faster as I fell to my doom, until all of the time that ever was would pass in a blink, and blast me with a wave of radiation as I turned into pasta, and I’d be dead.
The other brother sat enthralled.
“Wow…I so want to die like that.”
“Stick around and live a lot first.”
A bit more talk, some about the northern lights.
“Wait…how many galaxies are there?” a girl asked. Her wheels turned. “So there’s gotta be aliens out there!”
“Well…it seems likely.”
“Roberta”, a dedicated member and sharp astronomy fan, typed in the chat screen. “I don’t believe in aliens.”
“Care to share, Roberta?”
The conversation flowed on, someone else grabbing an opinion. I told them a story of how I’d been mistaken for an alien before. (They should have laughed harder. It was a joke…)
She mentioned it again. “I don’t believe in aliens. It doesn’t mention them in the Bible.”
I was so proud of her.
“Well, it’s an interesting thing…when we start talking about the big stuff, we’ve got to ponder these questions. What do we really think? And we’ve got to take religion and science and all of this stuff into account. I don’t think it’s ‘at war’ like it’s always made out to be. Read everything you can, and see what you come up with. Think. Go to your local library, and tell ‘em I sent you.”
And we were done.
So that’s why.
The crew on the call all has the potential to make great scientific discoveries. They’ve got the time and the talent. But there are broader, deeper themes that have me exhilarated, saying so that’s why.
The contagious courage of people brave enough to say what they think to be true. (Not only is there world-building mysterious potential in that, but - it’s an integral part of science. Consensus is rubbish in the scientific method. We’ve just witnessed that firsthand in a catastrophic way.)
How contemplation of the universe (or any honest conversation) can push us to our limits, where we find what we think, and what we’re made of, and what we might become.
Seeing people think, and learn to think, and start to wonder and marvel is something I’ll never get tired of. There’s a miracle in that. And such hope.
So that’s why.
Treasures from Earth
For a bit of beauty, order, thinking, and another reason to be glad we’re not falling into a black hole….Have a French Suite. No. 2 in C minor is my favorite. Schiff brings it.
Josh