NOVEMBER 20, 2022 – Last night I repeated a Red Cabin routine (when the weather’s clear): I went outside to check the stars.
After stepping down from our side porch onto a fresh blanket of snow . . . I gasped. In eerie silence the silhouetted woods touched a celestial vault filled with stars of all magnitudes. As I moved a foot this way or that, the heavenly lights blinked as they hid or appeared amidst trunks, branches and boughs. I took a breath and held it, as if to avoid notice by the gods. What business had I to disturb their divinity?
I moved slowly through the snow, craning my neck to survey heaven’s majesty beyond the tantalizing arboreal screen. Upon spotting Jupiter, I stopped, and . . . made a wish. It’s the same wish I always make, and afterward, I recalled the October evening when our son and granddaughter paid us a brief visit—on the driveway. Despite urban lights, Jupiter shone through with the power of its mythical namesake.
“Look, a star,” I said to Illiana. “Make a wish!”
My wife corrected me—precision and accuracy, in her case, being imperatives, not mere aspirations. “That’s a planet, not a star,” she said.
“But for making a wish,” I said, “it’s a star.” I’m not sure what Illiana made of my unscientific response, but she held her gaze skyward. “Did you make a wish?” I said, after a few seconds.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
Mission accomplished—in my world of make-believe.
After playing hide-and-go-seek with the stars last night, I moved to the small clearing in front of the cabin, then onto the berm overlooking the lake. From that vantage point I had an unobstructed view of the southern sky. Carefully, I slid to the shore stones for look east. There in all his dazzling magnificence, Orion, the giant huntsman, chased the Pleiades some distance away (444.2 light-years from earth, to be . . . more precise). I’d seen both constellations a gazillion times, but no matter—they are as timeless as Homer.
After gawking for several minutes, I retrieved binoculars inside the cabin. Out front again, I back-pedaled until the Seven Sisters rode free of the treetops, then trained my magnified view on those companions of Artemis—Maia, Electra, Taygete, Alycone, Celeano, Sterope and Merope. “Wow,” I said aloud. Standing motionless in the deep-freeze, the surrounding trees didn’t answer. They simply stared upward, in quiet amazement.
Today I worked hard again on Illiana’s gnome home (see yesterday’s post) and made major strides. But I also strode up and down the wooded ridges of Björnholm.
Early this morning, lake and landscape were veiled in mystery. Mercury had escaped the overnight grip of Boreas, but in the growing light of day, Aeolus, like a raging artist, blew his wrath across the open, steaming lake, landing his hoary breath along the shore and sculpting the snow into a gallery of images.
I ventured out several more times. Amidst one of my expedition, Helios blasted a hole through churning clouds. The dramatic surge sparked instantaneous recall of the Ode to Joy. The Ninth, in turn, caused me to think of my dad, who so loved these woods and the music of Beethoven. “Music expresses the inexpressible,” Dad often said, quoting Charles Munch.
The inexpressible, I thought. Like the effect of this natural beauty on the soul.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
