confronted with Orion
where I’m supposed to be
Showing posts with label Orion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Orion. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Posted with BlogsyThursday, December 8, 2016
Monday, September 21, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Saturday, February 1, 2014
February 1: Orion
After Pecha Kucha at the Rockport Opera House last night:
Bustle of people
spilling out onto the street.
Above, calm Orion.
Bustle of people
spilling out onto the street.
Above, calm Orion.
Friday, February 1, 2013
February 1: Red stars
Last night as I walked to the corner market, the night sky was crystal clear, and I could actually stop and enjoy the spectacle of stars without instantly freezing solid. Directly overhead, the planet Jupiter shone bright, poised above Aldebaran, a red giant star in the V-shaped constellation Taurus. Below Aldebaran, the red giant Betelgeuse hung on the right shoulder (our left) of the constellation Orion the Hunter. Amazing to think that the largest planet in our solar system (which is also red), and these two red giants flaming thousands of times larger than our own little yellow sun, are just tiny pinpricks from our vantage point here on Earth. We comprehend so little of what's around us in the universe.
Starry winter sky.
I made a big red wish
on Aldebaran.
Starry winter sky.
I made a big red wish
on Aldebaran.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
December 12: Night sky
In the backyard tonight braving the cold for a few minutes in hope of seeing some of the Geminid meteor shower. Clear sky on a new moon night, perfect for star-gazing. This pattern of constellations is the same one I first learned as a child studying the stars with a well-thumbed Golden Book--for me, the night sky's most familiar face. Over the roof peak poise the two stars of Gemini, Castor and Pollux; Orion climbs the sky beyond my neighbor's garden; Auriga, the Charioteer, pauses high over Mount Battie; the V of Taurus the Bull sits just below the blurred cluster of the Pleiades. And almost inside that V, bright Jupiter.
With binoculars, I can see three of Jupiter's four Galilean moons--the largest and brightest satellites of our largest planet--as well as the true redness of Aldebaran, the alpha star of Taurus. I don't expect to last long enough to see an actual meteor. But as I shiver and the cloud of my breath rises to the heavens, a quick falling star flashes behind a net of birch branches. I say "Thank you!" to the sky before rushing back into the warm house.
No need to make a wish.
This sky, these stars--
all I want right now.
With binoculars, I can see three of Jupiter's four Galilean moons--the largest and brightest satellites of our largest planet--as well as the true redness of Aldebaran, the alpha star of Taurus. I don't expect to last long enough to see an actual meteor. But as I shiver and the cloud of my breath rises to the heavens, a quick falling star flashes behind a net of birch branches. I say "Thank you!" to the sky before rushing back into the warm house.
No need to make a wish.
This sky, these stars--
all I want right now.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
November 10: Skyfall
Last night we watched "Skyfall," the new James Bond movie. My husband and I are huge 007 fans, particularly of the Daniel Craig portrayal, and have been anticipating this one for a while. It was all one might want in a Bond movie; we loved it.
As we drove home, still feeling the after-effects of witnessing all that testosterone in action--the chases, fights, seductions, and explosions--I looked out the car window to see a clear night sky full of stars (and one planet).
Jupiter high and bright
over Orion the Hunter.
James Bond kicks ass.
As we drove home, still feeling the after-effects of witnessing all that testosterone in action--the chases, fights, seductions, and explosions--I looked out the car window to see a clear night sky full of stars (and one planet).
Jupiter high and bright
over Orion the Hunter.
James Bond kicks ass.
Friday, February 5, 2010
February 5: Constellations
Some nights when I look up before going inside each evening and see the constellation of Orion tilting above my house over the southern face of Mount Battie, I feel lucky. It's as if I have a heavenly guardian or something, to see that familiar figure in the profound celestial blue of the winter night sky.
It's human nature to make sense of things, to create patterns out of things, delineate them. Most cultures have their own star stories. We're just trying to shape that vast distant ether, that unknowable vacuum of space pricked with the cold light of millions of distant suns, into something knowable. So we draw lines between different stars and create Orion, the big hunter, or Gemini, the twins, or Taurus, the bull, or Cassiopeia, the queen on her thrown. And we note the singular stars, the ones that stand out: Polaris, the North Star; Sirius, the brightest; Betelgeuse, a red giant.
But really, Orion is no sky king or starry god. And he's certainly not watching over me. "He" is just a collection of stars that in reality aren't anywhere near each other. Seen three dimensionally from somewhere out in the galaxy, the three stars that line up so nicely to create Orion's belt aren't lined up at all. They're light years apart any way you look at them. Really, there's no order out there. The stars, as I understand it, are just particles hurtling away from the Big Bang that started it all--shrapnel. And we're all just along for the ride.
We tell stories to comfort ourselves. But some nights, I don't see any stories in the sky overhead, just an unfathomable emptiness, space stretching infinitely away.
Fathomless night sky
shines with our made-up patterns,
offers cold comfort.
It's human nature to make sense of things, to create patterns out of things, delineate them. Most cultures have their own star stories. We're just trying to shape that vast distant ether, that unknowable vacuum of space pricked with the cold light of millions of distant suns, into something knowable. So we draw lines between different stars and create Orion, the big hunter, or Gemini, the twins, or Taurus, the bull, or Cassiopeia, the queen on her thrown. And we note the singular stars, the ones that stand out: Polaris, the North Star; Sirius, the brightest; Betelgeuse, a red giant.
But really, Orion is no sky king or starry god. And he's certainly not watching over me. "He" is just a collection of stars that in reality aren't anywhere near each other. Seen three dimensionally from somewhere out in the galaxy, the three stars that line up so nicely to create Orion's belt aren't lined up at all. They're light years apart any way you look at them. Really, there's no order out there. The stars, as I understand it, are just particles hurtling away from the Big Bang that started it all--shrapnel. And we're all just along for the ride.
We tell stories to comfort ourselves. But some nights, I don't see any stories in the sky overhead, just an unfathomable emptiness, space stretching infinitely away.
Fathomless night sky
shines with our made-up patterns,
offers cold comfort.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
December 17: Sirius
The night sky has been crystal clear the past few days, but the cloud-free sky has exposed us to winter's frigid blast. Not a good time for star-gazing. But tonight I couldn't help but notice (from the comfort of my car) our brightest star Sirius rising above the western horizon.
The facts: Sirius, alpha star in the constellation Canis Major (Big Dog) is also known as the Dog Star. This white binary star fairly close to us in relative astronomical terms--less than 9 light years away--has a magnitude, or brightness, of -1.43. The lower the number, the brighter the star--the sun, by comparison, is -27. That it's a binary--or double--star means two stars contribute to its light. And the fact that it's so bright, so obvious in the sky, brings it easily to our attention, as well as to that of star watchers throughout human history.
In Greek mythology, Canis Major and its companion constellation Canis Minor are the hunting dogs of Orion, a familiar constellation to most. When Orion rises in the winter sky, Sirius can be found below his left leg. Sirius, Procyon--the bright star of Canis Minor--and Betelgeuse--the red giant that forms Orion's left shoulder--form "the winter triangle."
While I always think of Sirius as a winter star, it was revered in Egypt over 5,000 years ago as a symbol of the Summer Solstice. Egyptians represented it with a hieroglyph of a dog, and the star was associated with the Nile and its annual inundation. The Greeks believed that the Dog Star produced the heat of summer, a sultry period we still refer to as the Dog Days. Other ancient cultures thought of Sirius as a dog, too, often the dog of the sun. But right now in New England, Sirius is the dog of very cold nights--three-dog nights, perhaps, when you want three dogs in your bed to keep you warm.
Interestingly, even the Cherokees thought of Sirius as a dog star--one of the two dog guides guarding the ends of the path of souls. The other star, Antares, is only visible in summer, so the two stars aren't in the sky at the same time. When encountered on the trail, each gatekeeper dog had to be given food before the soul would be allowed to continue its progress to the afterlife.
What must we do to appease the Dog Star of the Sun and perhaps gain a few degrees of warmth back into our life? Do the rising offerings of our wood smoke help? What about the harbor, offering up its own sea smoke this morning? Or the songs of coyotes in the winter woods?
Bright star of winter
shining with cold, remote light--
a sled dog's pale eye.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
November 17: Stars
Standing in the bone-chilling dark along the waterfront of Camden, Orion overhead, harbor below, the universe a pierced and sprawling void...
Orion's wide belt:
cosmic punctuation marks.
We're seeing the past!
Two for the price of one tonight:
Castor and Pollux,
twins, paired stars. Make up your mind
is what they're saying.
If I'd managed to glimpse a Leonid meteor, I might even have written three. I love seeing the classic stories of Greek mythology sprawled across the sky. Inspired by the constellations, you could retell a hundred tales and make up your own besides. The time of year when Orion rises is when I most enjoy sky-watching. His presence is for some reason such a comfort to me, as if he were a nocturnal giant watching over us while we sleep or some sort of star-made god.
Orion's wide belt:
cosmic punctuation marks.
We're seeing the past!
Two for the price of one tonight:
Castor and Pollux,
twins, paired stars. Make up your mind
is what they're saying.
If I'd managed to glimpse a Leonid meteor, I might even have written three. I love seeing the classic stories of Greek mythology sprawled across the sky. Inspired by the constellations, you could retell a hundred tales and make up your own besides. The time of year when Orion rises is when I most enjoy sky-watching. His presence is for some reason such a comfort to me, as if he were a nocturnal giant watching over us while we sleep or some sort of star-made god.
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