This last week we had to drive down to Mississippi to move my mother-in-law into a retirement community, which was trouble enough. The move itself was the easiest, in weight and carry, that I have ever done, with no flights of stars anywhere, with no stairwell walls to poke holes into. Emotionally, however, it was one of the toughest. She had spent the last 40 years in her house, with all the memories of her now deceased husband, her grown-up grand children, a wedding (ours), and countless barbecues being left behind for what she knew was the beginning of her final journey. As she is only 21 years older than I, it caused me some pause for reflection as well. But worst of all, or so I thought, would be the drive down and back.
I have described the Mississippi valley area a few times before, in my book Dream Weaver (yes, still available), and in the essay, "Elvis Goes Electric" (which did NOT win a prize this year in the Writer's Digest contest. Philistines!), and have had few good things to say. Boring. Flat corn country. Bad food. Dismal towns with dismal gas stations and people obviously blanched by the boredom, or so it has seemed. But not this time. For some reason, the drive was beautiful. I am not sure why. The muted colors of late fall, the bright blue cow ponds in the stripped fields of tan and earth-red, the patches of trees sprouting, now nearly naked, by small towns with water towers and names like Peru and Effingham, whose near-miss name on obscenity is doubled by the presence of a massive steel cross by the roadside. Beautiful, and I don't really know why.
Or maybe I do. This time, we listened to books on CD, both down and back, and on the way down, got to finish the one started on our last trip to the UP of Michigan. Titled Rocket Men (sorry I do not have the CD with me or the author's name). A sprawling book about the US space program that culminated in the Apollo 11 landing on the moon, it delved into the lives of rocket scientists, WW11 espionage, the missile race, politics, and, of course, the engineers and astronauts of our greatest national project, the 60's space program. A bit wonky at times for me, still it thrilled. No more did it thrill than towards the end, where the astronauts own words were used to describe space and the moon, what it was like. It reads (or, in our case,was read) like an epiphany, for that is what it was.
We learn, for instance, that even those who merely circled Earth were changed. Perfect, stoic marine John Glenn - for months after his historic flight could not help but look to the sky, always, stumbling as he walked. So common was it among the astronauts that they had a phrase for this stumbling walk (which I forget). For these orbiters, the solitude and vision from near space left them bereft of words and constantly longing to return. Not to a tiny capsule with "This is Houston" coming over the intercom, but to the look- out and the feeling of infinite immensity and perfect peace.
This was doubled, or quadrupled, or however one can measure, by those who walked or circled the moon. Although the moon looked a frightening place when in shadow, its over-all impact was one of stark beauty. Again, and more, it was a place of infinite solitude and peace. Deadly, hostile to anyone outside a suit, but open to the cosmos; open to what we all, I believe, carry inside us, just waiting for our attention, so quickly catured by space. Infinite space.
What really brought the experience home was a conversation with one of the Apollo crew who walked on the moon. He said that, at one point, he held up his thumb to earth, and with that thumb, was able to block it out. One might think this would give one a feeling of insignificance, but its affects were the exact opposite. Said the astronaut (I paraphrase from memory here), "it did not make me think life on earth was insignificant. Instead, I was filled with the wonder of this bright blue and white moon-like sphere where all my life, all my love, everything that I was, existed. And I saw it as incredibly beautiful but fragile, like the shell of an iridescent egg, precious beyond words, floating quietly in the infinitude of space; I thought of how special and precious we all were."
Of the Apollo 11 crew, two of the three had extremely difficult transitions back to earth side. Armstrong became more withdrawn, his wife eventually leaving him. She couldn't take the loneliness. He managed, though, unlike Buzz Aldrin, who not only lost his wife to divorce, but also became an alcoholic. Nothing could match the high of going to the moon - not the fanfare, not the praise, but the moon itself, the space, the infinite. To all, it was like the first heroin high, never to be reached again. For Aldrin, he tried to reach it again through other means, and failed. Only Collins, who had stayed in orbit on the mother ship Columbia, fared well. Said he (paraphrase again), "I was all alone, more alone than anyone had ever been, but I was not lonely. I was elated. I seemed to fill the emptiness, to expand." But we know he, too, would and will always look to the sky.
The Hindus call it the "Brahman in the Atman" , the cosmos in the individual. It can be found here on Earth with difficulty, but apparently, it can be found by anyone 'out there.' It, space, is the mother of our identity. Called in the Bible the "Pearl of Great Price," this realization is actually priceless, and what we were bound for, born for. After reading this book, more than ever I am convinced that, at almost any price, we must get back to space. As Jesus said, sadly, "the poor will always be amongst us." Yes, but even the poor are infinitely rich when confronted with their true being. It is in space where it is always met. Let's go back, farther, further. FK
I have described the Mississippi valley area a few times before, in my book Dream Weaver (yes, still available), and in the essay, "Elvis Goes Electric" (which did NOT win a prize this year in the Writer's Digest contest. Philistines!), and have had few good things to say. Boring. Flat corn country. Bad food. Dismal towns with dismal gas stations and people obviously blanched by the boredom, or so it has seemed. But not this time. For some reason, the drive was beautiful. I am not sure why. The muted colors of late fall, the bright blue cow ponds in the stripped fields of tan and earth-red, the patches of trees sprouting, now nearly naked, by small towns with water towers and names like Peru and Effingham, whose near-miss name on obscenity is doubled by the presence of a massive steel cross by the roadside. Beautiful, and I don't really know why.
Or maybe I do. This time, we listened to books on CD, both down and back, and on the way down, got to finish the one started on our last trip to the UP of Michigan. Titled Rocket Men (sorry I do not have the CD with me or the author's name). A sprawling book about the US space program that culminated in the Apollo 11 landing on the moon, it delved into the lives of rocket scientists, WW11 espionage, the missile race, politics, and, of course, the engineers and astronauts of our greatest national project, the 60's space program. A bit wonky at times for me, still it thrilled. No more did it thrill than towards the end, where the astronauts own words were used to describe space and the moon, what it was like. It reads (or, in our case,was read) like an epiphany, for that is what it was.
We learn, for instance, that even those who merely circled Earth were changed. Perfect, stoic marine John Glenn - for months after his historic flight could not help but look to the sky, always, stumbling as he walked. So common was it among the astronauts that they had a phrase for this stumbling walk (which I forget). For these orbiters, the solitude and vision from near space left them bereft of words and constantly longing to return. Not to a tiny capsule with "This is Houston" coming over the intercom, but to the look- out and the feeling of infinite immensity and perfect peace.
This was doubled, or quadrupled, or however one can measure, by those who walked or circled the moon. Although the moon looked a frightening place when in shadow, its over-all impact was one of stark beauty. Again, and more, it was a place of infinite solitude and peace. Deadly, hostile to anyone outside a suit, but open to the cosmos; open to what we all, I believe, carry inside us, just waiting for our attention, so quickly catured by space. Infinite space.
What really brought the experience home was a conversation with one of the Apollo crew who walked on the moon. He said that, at one point, he held up his thumb to earth, and with that thumb, was able to block it out. One might think this would give one a feeling of insignificance, but its affects were the exact opposite. Said the astronaut (I paraphrase from memory here), "it did not make me think life on earth was insignificant. Instead, I was filled with the wonder of this bright blue and white moon-like sphere where all my life, all my love, everything that I was, existed. And I saw it as incredibly beautiful but fragile, like the shell of an iridescent egg, precious beyond words, floating quietly in the infinitude of space; I thought of how special and precious we all were."
Of the Apollo 11 crew, two of the three had extremely difficult transitions back to earth side. Armstrong became more withdrawn, his wife eventually leaving him. She couldn't take the loneliness. He managed, though, unlike Buzz Aldrin, who not only lost his wife to divorce, but also became an alcoholic. Nothing could match the high of going to the moon - not the fanfare, not the praise, but the moon itself, the space, the infinite. To all, it was like the first heroin high, never to be reached again. For Aldrin, he tried to reach it again through other means, and failed. Only Collins, who had stayed in orbit on the mother ship Columbia, fared well. Said he (paraphrase again), "I was all alone, more alone than anyone had ever been, but I was not lonely. I was elated. I seemed to fill the emptiness, to expand." But we know he, too, would and will always look to the sky.
The Hindus call it the "Brahman in the Atman" , the cosmos in the individual. It can be found here on Earth with difficulty, but apparently, it can be found by anyone 'out there.' It, space, is the mother of our identity. Called in the Bible the "Pearl of Great Price," this realization is actually priceless, and what we were bound for, born for. After reading this book, more than ever I am convinced that, at almost any price, we must get back to space. As Jesus said, sadly, "the poor will always be amongst us." Yes, but even the poor are infinitely rich when confronted with their true being. It is in space where it is always met. Let's go back, farther, further. FK
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