“For my part, I know nothing with any certainty,

but the sight of stars makes me dream.”

Vincent Van Gogh

I may have driven to a lodge in Africa.

At least, that’s what the last 3 miles felt like.

Dark sky. Rocky road. Middle of nowhere. And then an old, well-maintained building marked “office” with my key in an envelope by the door. 

That’s when I knew I was still in Texas – in Tanzania, someone always greets you.

The key led me up the hill, to the room/cabin, and came with a small attached map. And the encouragement to keep your lights off or dimmed. This is dark sky territory.

That’s a piece of why I picked this space: dark skies. 

I love going out to the small town where I grew up and standing out in the yard at night and seeing far more stars than shine through “in town.” At first glance, that’s what you see here: a simple map of familiar stars. It’s what I see now, with a computer screen open.

But turn off the screen, close your eyes, let them adjust, and an entirely new map of worlds appears. The stars are just a layer, standing out from all the other texture behind and around them. You can only see them with darkness embraced. Slowly, as my eyes adjust, I gasp a little. Relax a little. Breathe more deeply and stand in awe. 

There is so much there.

Earlier, I took a quick detour to a tourist stop. Some blog somewhere had mentioned that if you make one stop between Austin and Big Bend, it should be the Caverns of Sonora. So I did.

The caverns are on 6^th generation land, maintained privately. Two other people were there for the late in the day descent. We occupied ourselves with hummingbirds and peacocks until the time came. 

Down – first through the dormant part, where nothing grows. Down – through the semi-dormant, where waters seeps in sometimes and slowly there are signs of life. Down – to the living, vital part of the caverns, up to 155 ft below the surface. Our surface air is sealed out; there are too many pollutants in the air you and I breathe. It destroys the life in the caverns. There are places all over where explorers before us have taken advantage of a guide’s distraction and broken off previously living things and taken them as “souvenirs” and the touch of their fingers left a spot where nothing will grow again. There is a small pool where someone threw a penny long ago. It was quickly retrieved – but the water is still discolored, decades later.

Oh the lessons to ponder. 

But what I’m thinking about now is the darkness.

In the middle of every tour, the guide asks if everyone agrees to turn out the lights and stand in darkness. The darkness is complete; there are no stars or sparkling rocks. Everyone has to say yes or it doesn’t happen. Why? Because such total lack of light is disorienting. Almost immediately, you feel your body shift, your balance go off just a bit. It’s uncomfortable, even terrifying for some, to feel that nothing is there. Everybody is asked to be still, while the guide tells you how such complete darkness can blind you. Your eyes shift to no sight. It can come back – but you have to gently return.

I look up at these layered and shining dark skies and they seem so close. Almost intimate. Everything is dark, but there is a warmness to it wrapped around you. Blankets of stars, stacked in front, in back, and all around you, holding me. My eyes take it all in, like a deep, life giving breathe. Wise men followed these stars boldly. Explorers have navigated and journeyed by them. Friends have been these stars to me when I have worried that I was in complete darkness. 

There are only so many places left in our world where we let these skies, these stars still hold us. They are healing. They are magical. They are holy. 

It’s International Dark Skies Week – go to https://www.darksky.org to learn more.