by Ann » Wed Jun 01, 2011 4:57 pm
The video reminds me very strongly of one of the defining moments that turned me into a diehard astronomy nerd.
It was 1970 or 1971, a crisp and clear winter night. Snow on the ground. I had just read about the Andromeda galaxy, that it was high in the sky and you could see it just fine with a pair of binoculars. My parents had a pair of binoculars, and I decided to go out and find the galaxy.
Well, this was the first time ever that I had watched the sky through binoculars. I was frustrated and confused at the small field of vision. A bright star would suddenly sail into view as I moved my binoculars a little, and then another, but I had no idea which ones they were.
I stood there for a while trying to aim my binoculars just so, but eventually my arms got just too tired. So I went inside and got myself a blanket that I spread on the ground. Now I could lie down on the ground on top of the blanket and rest my arms. But, wow! What a feeling that was, lying down on the snowy ground, feeling every inch of my body touch the ground, and feeling, as it were, the enormous sphere of the Earth curving away from me on all sides. And yet, even though the Earth was enormous compared to me, it was so incredibly, unbelievably tiny compared with the glittering blackness that stretched away to infinity above me, as I stared straight into this endless blackness. And I could feel, I could imagine, how the enormous yet tiny sphere of the Earth was like a sailing ship in the night, sailing along in the cosmos, floating inside it. I could almost feel the Earth turn, and I could almost see the stars move along grand celestial arcs above me, although I and the Earth were really the ones that were moving. And yet it moves, as Galileo said!
But the blackness that I was staring into wasn't all black. Back then, it didn't occur to me that stars could be blue, so as I swept my binoculars over stars with solidly negative (blue) color indexes - Alpha Andromedae, Pi Andromedae, Nu Andromedae - I didn't see that they were blue, but only brilliantly, icy white. So when I suddenly, and after a very long time of trying, finally found M31 as it sailed from nowhere into my field of view, I'm sure I gasped out loud. Where the stars had been brilliant points of icy white, the galaxy was soft, extended and yellowish. It was yellowish! I'm not kidding you! I can't explain how the soft texture and yellow color moved me, because these qualities made it so overwhelmingly obvious that the object that I had finally found in that ocean of blackness was a different thing that the stars. It was, rather, billions of stars. Billions and billions. And I was looking at all these stars all at once.
And I felt, again so strongly that I can't put it in words, that there was someone there inside that yellow softness. Not so that I felt a mystic "connection" with someone in that blurry spot. Not so that I felt the actual "presence" of someone. But I knew that I was looking at billions and billions of stars all at once, and I felt so strongly that I can't put it in words, that there was someone in there. At least one star out of the billions and billions that I was looking at all at once had a planet that was like the Earth, and there were people on that planet that were at least a bit like us. I was totally certain of it.
Now I'm not so sure. What I saw back then was the yellow bulge of M31, and I'm no longer at all sure that bulges are ideal places for habitable planets. I'm not sure of that at all. When I have thought back on that night, I have felt less and less certain that the yellow softness that I could see in my binoculars actually contained any advanced life forms at all. Of course, the actual life-friendliness or lack of it of planets in the bulge has nothing whatsoever to do with what I might think of it, so my first impression may have been right, for all I know: maybe there was someone in that yellow softness after all.
One thing is certain: I'll never forget the magic of that night. And I have been an astronomy nerd ever since.
I couldn't find any nice pictures to illustrate my story, but...
This is not me, because it's a guy. And it's broad daylight here. But he will have to do, because it is surprisingly difficult to find pictures of people lying on the ground watching the sky.
This clearly isn't the Earth, but it brings home the idea of the Earth as a small sphere floating in a big "skyscape".
Ann
The video reminds me very strongly of one of the defining moments that turned me into a diehard astronomy nerd.
It was 1970 or 1971, a crisp and clear winter night. Snow on the ground. I had just read about the Andromeda galaxy, that it was high in the sky and you could see it just fine with a pair of binoculars. My parents had a pair of binoculars, and I decided to go out and find the galaxy.
Well, this was the first time ever that I had watched the sky through binoculars. I was frustrated and confused at the small field of vision. A bright star would suddenly sail into view as I moved my binoculars a little, and then another, but I had no idea which ones they were.
I stood there for a while trying to aim my binoculars just so, but eventually my arms got just too tired. So I went inside and got myself a blanket that I spread on the ground. Now I could lie down on the ground on top of the blanket and rest my arms. But, wow! What a feeling that was, lying down on the snowy ground, feeling every inch of my body touch the ground, and feeling, as it were, the enormous sphere of the Earth curving away from me on all sides. And yet, even though the Earth was enormous compared to me, it was so incredibly, unbelievably tiny compared with the glittering blackness that stretched away to infinity above me, as I stared straight into this endless blackness. And I could feel, I could imagine, how the enormous yet tiny sphere of the Earth was like a sailing ship in the night, sailing along in the cosmos, floating inside it. I could almost feel the Earth turn, and I could almost see the stars move along grand celestial arcs above me, although I and the Earth were really the ones that were moving. And yet it moves, as Galileo said!
But the blackness that I was staring into wasn't all black. Back then, it didn't occur to me that stars could be blue, so as I swept my binoculars over stars with solidly negative (blue) color indexes - Alpha Andromedae, Pi Andromedae, Nu Andromedae - I didn't see that they were blue, but only brilliantly, icy white. So when I suddenly, and after a very long time of trying, finally found M31 as it sailed from nowhere into my field of view, I'm sure I gasped out loud. Where the stars had been brilliant points of icy white, the galaxy was soft, extended and yellowish. It was yellowish! I'm not kidding you! I can't explain how the soft texture and yellow color moved me, because these qualities made it so overwhelmingly obvious that the object that I had finally found in that ocean of blackness was a different thing that the stars. It was, rather, billions of stars. Billions and billions. And I was looking at all these stars all at once.
And I felt, again so strongly that I can't put it in words, that there was someone there inside that yellow softness. Not so that I felt a mystic "connection" with someone in that blurry spot. Not so that I felt the actual "presence" of someone. But I knew that I was looking at billions and billions of stars all at once, and I felt so strongly that I can't put it in words, that there was someone in there. At least one star out of the billions and billions that I was looking at all at once had a planet that was like the Earth, and there were people on that planet that were at least a bit like us. I was totally certain of it.
Now I'm not so sure. What I saw back then was the yellow bulge of M31, and I'm no longer at all sure that bulges are ideal places for habitable planets. I'm not sure of that at all. When I have thought back on that night, I have felt less and less certain that the yellow softness that I could see in my binoculars actually contained any advanced life forms at all. Of course, the actual life-friendliness or lack of it of planets in the bulge has nothing whatsoever to do with what I might think of it, so my first impression may have been right, for all I know: maybe there was someone in that yellow softness after all.
One thing is certain: I'll never forget the magic of that night. And I have been an astronomy nerd ever since.
I couldn't find any nice pictures to illustrate my story, but...
[img]http://us.cdn3.123rf.com/168nwm/foto4u/foto4u1005/foto4u100500049/6950025-man-lying-in-badlands-enjoying-sunshine-sonnected-to-earth.jpg[/img]
This is not me, because it's a guy. And it's broad daylight here. But he will have to do, because it is surprisingly difficult to find pictures of people lying on the ground watching the sky.
[img2]http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Vd_wwV01BGU/S6miwjs7AbI/AAAAAAAAAB8/7CIrpXYqW7Q/s1600/paraguay.jpg[/img2]
This clearly isn't the Earth, but it brings home the idea of the Earth as a small sphere floating in a big "skyscape".
Ann