It is a sad poem indeed. The one that showers dim light upon a fiery sky. The thoughts, the words, the warmth from billions of light years away, how did it get here? And why?
As I look at the night, I see not stars that are illuminated by our sun. Nay, they shine of their own light. Or do they? For isn’t their light shared between the giants in the sky? Unlike candle or bulb that radiates from a source alone, the stars burn of their own accord, and they also absorb due to their immense size and gravity.
If our small earth collects light, then so must the sun himself. And due to his undeniable size and station, he must absorb much light from others like him. For when I look into the night sky, I see light that took time to soar, time to travel.
So our sun collects light, and sends it back to us. Is it a gift? Is it a randomizing process to make each new day truly new, truly unique. With even if the same food eaten, the same paths walked, the same water drank, the same people discussed to and discussed with and discussed about…the rays are different. And different as much every time.
Like a powerful and generous king who redistributes the wealth of the land among the land, so doth the sun share the photons and cosmic rays collected from other stars upon our tiny world.
But the night is raw. Raw yet dim. The stars can only send small messages, small whispers from their cosmic relay. But to discount their effort would be like shunning a messenger who walked ninety-thousand miles to deliver a tattered note. Of course his boots have been worn to shreds. Of course his tears have been caked with sand. Of course his cloak is nothing but a collar and belt. But his message, his tiny note of a old tongue…that has value.
So not only do I accept the note, and read it. But I keep the note. I keep a thing that has such little value and little discernible significance, not because it is part of some strange and cumbersome collection.
It is kept because it has travelled far enough.
As I burn my candle late tonight. I do it so the stars have an ally, a friend of sorts. Like a dog that follows a pack of wolves, I wait to see what mountain they will stop at. What vista will catch the eye.
So I send this small note to a few, a few that are burning their candle. So perhaps they too enjoy the night. Not in an attempt to steal the joy of solitude or smother the emotions of tranquility. But to leave a frayed note, at the doorstep, at the threshold.
From one pilgrim to another.
July 12th, 2011 – 2:19AM