I’m looking into the depth of a midwinter night. The sky is crystal clear, there’s not a cloud in sight. It's not pitch-black yet, there’s still a tinge of Prussian blue at the western horizon. And yet, the stars are burning above me, white and vibrant. Every inhale of breath feels like sucking on an extra strong mint. It’s the sort of cold today that really gets into your bones if you're not wrapped up: it's -3°C right now. I've been staring at Jupiter. I can't take my eyes off it. If you don’t know, it's the very, very bright star in the sky at the moment that you see appear before anything else (at least if you’re in the UK). But it's not a star. It's Jupiter.
The way to tell, by the way, is if it's not twinkling, it's a planet. That's because planets are far closer, so they have a wider of beam of light that’s less affected by the Earth’s atmosphere. When I was a kid, I used to know the core temperature of the planets and the names of all the moons. Not anymore though. There’s some I’ll never forget: Jupiter’s four giants; Io, Ganymede, Europa and Callisto, and Saturn’s Titan, and Pluto’s Charon. I remember vivid images in my textbooks of Io’s volcanic eruptions, Ganymede’s scale and likeness to our own moon, Callisto’s puckered skin and Europa’s frozen depths. I could name maybe half of the brightest stars in the sky—basically what was visible from a suburban garden, and which often were asterisms—groups of easily identifiable, brighter stars within bigger constellations. The Plough (an asterism) and Orion and Cygnus (constellations) were my most frequented celestial neighbours with my binoculars (and later on, my telescope).
The knowledge isn’t quite as sharp as it used to be. I hate that, because it was something that defined me for a really long time. By the time I was fourteen I could freely navigate my way around the northern hemisphere. And not everyone could do that. It was something I felt proud of. My dad, who was a navigator in the Merchant Navy, taught me how to find my way with the stars. It was something that rang in my bones, a complete alignment with who I am.
I was obsessed with space.
I’d pour over my Astronomy Now subscription, gulping down the information about the latest discoveries and stare longingly at glossy telescope adverts. I still am a bit obsessed, as much as time allows, but like any interest, you can't go gunning into all of them full-pelt, it just wouldn’t work. You end up being half immersed in many different things—I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, certainly being an astronomer isn’t something that would have suited me… all those hours pouring over maths equations rather than actually looking up.
I took my obsession with space and astronomy as far as my second year of uni, where I took astronomy and physics electives. I adored it. But I was studying a biomedical degree, and I knew my hatred for mathematics would prevent me from excelling and enjoying taking it further. This had to remain a joyful pursuit—it meant too much. I’m so glad I got to go to that level though. I loved calculating the distance across the universe, how many parsecs were between stars. I'm not a mathematician or someone who loves equations outwith astronomy. In fact, the whole way through school and uni I worked out my chemistry equations in ways my professors couldn’t understand at all, but with physics, I understood the ‘normal’ way. I got the answers right in chemistry but I was never awarded the ‘working’ in my exams, only the answer itself. In my astronomy elective though, I scored 98% in my final.
The reason I loved these electives so much was that I’m always seeking to understand the universe, our place in it, and how we’re connected with it. I’m not religious but I’m inherently curious. At that point in time, we hadn't actually decided if the universe was expanding or not. It’s overwhelming to see how far we’ve come since then. (Anyone else terrified of getting sucked into a black hole since the Hadron Collider started up? It’s not a huge risk… but any risk with your One And Only Planet seems a bit too much).
Simply looking up at these celestial objects and connecting with our eyes, is such a profound and grounding thing. I don't think you need to know who they are, or the mythology behind the constellation names, I think simply witnessing them is a privilege in itself. The same goes for the moon, eclipses and solar eclipses, any celestial phenomenon.
I've been finding myself hanging out of my window a lot, like I am tonight, staring at this thing through my binoculars. These are not birding binoculars, by the way—these are telescopic. And I must look like such a bizarre image to passers by and the people in the flats opposite. Particularly when it's past midnight and there's no lights on, and I'm hanging over the Juliet balcony in my pyjamas, freezing my nips off just to catch a glimpse of these old friends. I'm just too excited to care. I used to stand for hours in our back garden in the winter, when I was a kid. Freezing cold, I’d wait until my hands would be shaking terribly and I couldn’t actually see anything through the binoculars anymore, before I’d reluctantly give up and go in. I used to love watching the stars moving across the sky. If you're out for long enough, you see that happening in real time and it's very grounding and gives you a lot of perspective. There is a whole other thing going on way out there, that we don't give attention to in the daytime. It used to be a treat to spot the space station—but there’s so many rich-guy rockets and satellites that it’s quite easy, now.
It's something that gets me funny looks, but I don't care. I have this knack that I've developed, in being able to see past things. I’d be absolutely ensconced in the Andromeda galaxy, for example, even though I was stuck in the back of my suburban garden, surrounded by sodium streetlights and neighbours looking at me from cracks in their curtains. I don’t have a garden—and it’s arguably not the best idea to go wandering in the depth of night as a lone female (I am so jealous of the freedoms of men), so I observe from my windows. We're quite lucky to have big windows, and we have a lot of sky. I can look out over the faraway hills and the distant woods, and I bet you that no one else who lives here after us would ever see that—because we're also surrounded by buildings. I guess my eyes are always looking for the pop of nature, wherever it can be found.
Tonight, that's hanging out of my window, above the street lights and parked cars, staring at this gorgeous thing that I have a huge affinity for. Through the binoculars, I can see those four moons aligned in a diagonal plane, two on each side of the bright disc of Jupiter. A string of unearthly pearls, tranquil, suspended. I am not in my room—I am in space, and nothing can touch me.
I feel awe at them all. And those are the best feelings. We all know love and it’s power… but I reckon it’s wonder that really takes us outside of ourselves.
How are you finding wonder? What interests speak to the core of you? I’d love to know! Please tell me in the comments below xx