When satellites circled the earth, I tracked them till my neck hurt. When a dog or a man flew in a capsule, I pictured myself there, looking out a window or a porthole. I didn't know what I'd see, but I knew it would be beautiful.
The summer that astronauts first landed on the moon, I watched on a black-and-white television with fellow college actors in Boston. Only when the capsule opened and Armstrong descended the steps did we dare to breathe.
Later, I watched space shuttle flights, and still later I obsessed over the incredible photographs made possible by the Hubble.
And now, today, I read about a man who has found small meteorites from the fireball that streaked across the western sky just this last weekend. In his photograph, he holds a small bit of carbonaceous chondrite, dating back four to five billion years.
Billion with a B.
The time of the early formation of the solar system.
Imagine: holding the beginning of time in the hand.
I can imagine that when I look into the iris each spring. Cells sparkle with starlight in the inward-turning petals. The center spirals fiery color outwards. The blossom opens and then folds in on itself, like a universe bending and expanding in time.
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