I am standing outside on the deck this early September night. Except for a bit of glow from our livingroom windows, I am surrounded by the dark. As far from the windows as possible, I lean against the railing and look up. My view of the night sky is cordoned off by the ring of trees surrounding our property. Just above the roof line, I see the  Big Dipper – it is so clear and bright and obvious against the background of all the other stars. I don’t remember it being so bright when I was a kid growing up in Budd Lake, New Jersey. Or so huge, either. Does it have something to do with the latitude at which I live now? I follow the short edge of the “cup” till  it leads my eye to the North Star. Considering how important this star has been, leading human beings on journeys of exploration, it isn’t a particularly impressive star – rather a bit dim actually. But all it has to do is what it does, remaining there, directly above my head while all its brothers and sisters rotate round it. I turn my head a bit and I can see a milky path spreading itself across my bowl of sky. The air is so clear and cloudless that this Milky Way is very, very evident. I imagine ancient peoples sitting outside their tents at night, unhindered by light pollution, looking up and seeing all those stars, being surrounded by them, so seemingly close one could just reach out a hand and touch them.

As I stand there on my inconsequential deck, looking up at all those stars scattered against the darkness, I can’t help but be reminded of the many science fiction novels I’ve read whose stories play out against the vast background of Space. And standing there, I think, How parochial we humans are. Tied so closely to this tiny rock we call Earth, in this small neighborhood of the galaxy, upon which all our lives depend. And all we’ve taken are very tiny baby steps outward towards the great unknown.