#79, October 31, 2001
Look up, neighbors, up to the "billy-uns and
billy-uns" of stars above. As Carl reminded us, we are standing at
"the shore of the cosmic ocean," at the edge of the ultimate
wilderness area. A popular astrologer, not to be confused with Mr. Sagan the
astronomer, says, "The stars impel -- they don't compel."
Nonetheless, I have found the night sky very compelling. Let me share with you
some examples.
The November 1999 Leonid meteor storm: I got up at 3 AM to
scout the action. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained nimbus black. At 4
AM, starry patches appeared and began to grow as clouds swirled around them. I
woke the family. We took up positions on the back lawn, laying prone on our
picnic table and benches, eyes skyward. There weren't a lot of shooters
that morning, but what we saw thrilled us beyond the best of fourth of July
skyrockets. Some broke into smaller pieces up as they blazed across a gap in
the clouds. Others left long luminous trails to fade into black. Two ended in
silent explosions of light.
My first night in the winter desert: I stood among the
Joshua trees, and the sky was black dots on a white glow. The constellations
were lost. It looked like those enameled metal plates we used for camping.
The summer night I grasped a cosmic fundamental: the Milky
Way does not curve around the earth. Rather, it curves away from the
earth. From our tilted orbit we look into the edge of a fiery disk of
stupendous proportion, cloaked in astral dust.
Spending time with the night sky brings out the wonder and
the wonderful in us. We were on the banks of the Smith River, a place of
crystal clear waters and skies. We had been showing our campmates the sights
from my daughter's new reflector telescope. There was only a slice of the
heavens between the walls of towering trees, but we located several stunning
galaxies. Once we captured two side by side in the viewfinder.
After the others had returned to their tents, my seven year
old son and I sat pondering the mysteries of rocks and stars. I told him how
the Indians believed there was spirit in the earth, and in the water. "And
the rocks, they have spirit" he said, picking up on my lead. "And the
sand. And these bushes. And these sticks…" Then he leaned back against me, gazed into to the sky, and said
matter-of-factly, "Everything has spirit; even the black mass of
space."
When I was in college, my roommates and I had a laugh over a
commemorative stamp which showed a spacewalking astronaut floating in the vast
void, connected to his unseen ship by a thin lifeline. Its caption: "Man Conquers Space."
Now, space won't be conquered so easily on its home turf,
but the night sky is under heavy attack from down here on the ground. It’s a
war most of us probably don't realize we're fighting. Our weapon?-- urban sky
glow, caused by too much bad lighting.
Light pollution denies us that powerful connection to the
rest of the universe. But it's bad in many other ways. Glare: often making it
dangerous to get around at night. Light trespass: wasted light shining into our
yards and bedrooms. A trashy looking, confusing nighttime environment: please,
there's enough ugliness visible during the day! Last but not least, energy
waste: shining light where it isn't and using inefficient fixtures and designs
costs everyone.
What can you do about this? Plenty! You can use good lights
and designs, using appropriate illumination levels; aim lights down and put
shields above them; use timers, and so on. More important, you can help educate
your community to the problem and the solutions. Hey City Hall, let's ban those
glaring, sky-lighting "historic" lights like those on the new D
Street bridge.
If you want to fight for the stars and not against them,
check out the International Dark-Sky Association at www.darksky.org.