Today I had occasion today to watch "A Walk in the Woods," the movie based on the book by Bill Bryson. (Thank you so much, Bill.) There was a scene in which the two characters (Bill and his friend Stephen) fall and find themselves trapped on a ledge while hiking the Appalachian Trail. After attempting a climb up and out, and having no success, they settle down and quietly study the sky with all its dazzling beauty. It reminded me of something I wrote long ago and I felt I knew these two men and what they were thinking. So here you are . . .
I think I have it all figured out, I finally know what's causing society's problems. It's the sky--or the way we fail to take notice of it as we become adults.
Think back with me and you'll know just what I'm talking about. You'll have to go back quite a few years, but let your mind wander and come back to our childhood. You remember it, don't you -- it's all coming back, isn't it? It all seems to float right before your eyes, as if it were a blink ago. It's a balmy summer night. (You never know what "balmy" means until you're forty or so, then you learn the meteorological definition.) But you knew when you were eight, didn't you? You knew in a better way, a more intuitive way. You could sit on your steps as the sun began to settle over the other side of the world and you could feel the warm breeze rush over you, and you could actually feel your hair stand on end, because this feeling was the harbinger of night. And while you watched that huge ball of red, what were you doing except watching the sky? As a matter of fact you spent a lot of time (if you'd really admit it) watching the sky and reading the heavens. But you noticed it in a totally different way from the adult who watches now.
Back then the sky did melt into bright yellow, pinkish, bluish, sunsets. You probably pretended that the huge strata-like concoction was a gigantic beach for the gods, or the angels, or whatever concept you had swirling around in the old gray matter at the time. You sat in your infinite smallness watching the changes in that sky of your childhood and were in awe.
You waited for night to fall and you sat in the velvet of the evening, when everything was soft and cool and magic. You could see the stars and think about what might be out there and ponder the unfathomable. You could see the inky blueness as you wondered just how far the sky must stretch, and who or what might exist. And then you went to bed, in your finite little bed, in your finite house, and knew what was real and what was not.
The next day you played under the sky as the sun, like a strange friend and adversary at the same time, beat down on you. On those hot, really sweltering summer days, you wondered just how much of a friend the sun really was. You skittered from shady spot to shady spot, and sweated the sweet sweat of childhood. You saw glorious clouds -- huge, puffy ones that you were convinced were cotton, no matter what they said in science class. It was much more fun to imagine clouds that way. You sat with your closest comrades around you and studied the clouds and deciphered them--making of them all manner of shapes and objects.
Then the afternoon came and the cycle started to repeat itself. You could see the sun creeping over the yard and you could feel the day dying, like an old friend. That's when the wind would come up just a little, and you would settle on the steps again and watch the clouds for what would probably be the last time for that day. But no matter, for the black mantle of night would drape itself snugly over you with a dazzling collection of stars, and somehow at that point you didn't miss the day.
If there were no sun, and the rains came, you stayed in that day. Sometimes the sky wept, and all you could do was to watch the heavens cry. But you made a game even of that. You watched droplets trickle, and dance and splatter, until there were no more and the sun came out again. You watched the storms too, with the sky angrily blowing around the grayness up there. Once again you quietly thanked God for that house and the four walls.
But as you grew older, the sky lost its mystery. It became a source of irritation instead of wonder. It rained on your plans with your friends, or on your new hairdo, or newly washed car. Night always fell too soon, and found you wanting just another hour of daylight to do your work. The storms blew and ripped off your gutters or part of the roof, and you knew you had yet another repair job ahead of you. Yes, now you saw the sky as a constant thorn in your side.
But you can fix all that, you know. Just go out some balmy night, to your front steps or somewhere you can get a good view of the sky, and sit for a while. If you wait long enough, you can feel the hair on your arms stand on end. If you listen you can hear the laughter of a child long ago. Once again you will be one with the sky, with its mystery, its beauty, and simultaneously you will realize just how unimportant and important you really are .