Another late evening walk with Raphael completed.
All we "caught" was a bunny in the flashlight beam on this cold-crisp-but-pleasant-nonetheless walk. But over the past few weeks we have seen many deer, a racoon, an opossum, a skunk, and quite a few other bunnies. Not to mention quite a few green glowing eyes in the woods - probably deer or racoons... but maybe they belonged to something else? We didn't want to walk through our neighbors' yards uninvited to find out.
I believe that Raphael enjoys the alone time with me - exploring the smells of the evening neighborhood, which must surely smell different from the daytime neighborhood.
While we walk, I very much enjoy looking up at the stars. Tonight was particularly nice with only a few wispy clouds to block the view. No moon to speak of, and much less light pollution compared with when we lived closer to the city.
There is something called the "High Place Phenomenon" which refers to that urge people get to jump from an overlook or viewing platform. I remember feeling that when we would go on a cruise. I would look down from over the balcony at the turquoise waves splashing past the ship when we were out at sea. It isn't the sort of impulse that becomes a compulsion, it's a feeling of "what if" that spreads slightly into something physical. A brief tingle of tension through arms to toes and through legs to fingers. It is a mixed up feeling that wavers and fades. Well, it either passively fades, or it is actively suppressed by my feelings of mortality; the rational knowing of what would happen if I did jump. That's NOT the way I want to exit this reality.
I bring this up because I feel something terribly stronger on our clear-night walks. There is another phrase used to name the "urge to jump" that, for me, better describes how I feel when I look to the stars. It is "L'appel du vide" or "the Call of the Void." People use the French version to make it sound more romantic, I guess. But I think the German isn't so bad sounding either: "der Ruf der Leere." Whatever. My destination here isn't so much about what it is called but how it feels. It is an aching yearning for something that can never be. I want to see, no, I want to VISIT the stars. Each and every one. I want to see the planets orbiting them and explore whatever is on them. Finding life would be great, but I really just want to know what's there. The weather, the formations, the atmospheres... I want to know everything. See everything. There's so much potential to experience. But it is out of reach. It might as well not even exist. All I get is to see the glass windows of the candy store all shaded over. Not even a hint of what's inside. Just knowing something is there is all I get. "No man's sky," I guess.
This call of the void doesn't feel like the urge to jump, exactly. It doesn't fade after a moment. It squeezes me and pushes bitter sadness into my being. A strong feeling of loss for something I never even possessed. I'm not even close to being able to satisfy my desires... so I pity Michael Collins who came so close to landing on the moon, but never quite got there - and he knew he wouldn't. Nonetheless, I crave that chance - to see it all. But I never ever will. And yet, every night we walk, I look to the stars expectantly.
So nice that I can live in a world where such frivolous thoughts have the chance to carry such weight with me.
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