As I laid comfortably under the trees next to my dorm, sinking deeper into the damp earth with each beat of the heart, I heard the calming wind sift through the gaps between the branches, and filling in the corners of my lungs as I inhaled a slow, but unpainful, breath of fresh air. Used to living in a fast paced and crowded city with severe pollution, I never got to be outside that often, and I’d never considered myself a “nature person.” I hated the way that dirt would stick onto my pants when I sat down on the grass, how insects would crawl onto my legs while hiking, and the agitating feeling of hot, sweltering sweat sticking onto my skin, drenching all my clothes. I never stayed out longer than I needed to, but somehow, the sunsets would always catch a corner of my eye whenever I went on forced-nightly walks with my parents. 

I don’t remember much of my life before seventh grade. Perhaps because I was simply too young and naive with an underdeveloped brain, failing to recognize the rarity of the things happening around me and the importance of capturing memories, or maybe because life was so routinely and repetitive that younger me had felt it unnecessary to remember those moments. I remember a line from the poem Nosotos by Louise Glück that I read a year ago that said: 

We look at the world once, in childhood.

The rest is memory

I resonate with this deeply, as I struggle to find the middle ground between living in the moment and capturing the moment. I recall standing on the balcony of my home one day in eighth grade, yanking the dry clothes from the racks as my mother had tasked me to do, and suddenly struck by the realization that I never recognize what’s happening outside my window. Arriving home in the late afternoons, too occupied with schoolwork and chores, I never noticed the sunsets at dusk, or the magnificent variety of colors in the sky. Realizing how the days, months, and years were all blending into one big blob of time, I promised myself, then, that I would slow down and take deep breaths when difficult times loomed over me. 

For nearly a year, my entire world seemed to have come to a stop. My ballet studio closed down, school became remote, and I lost contact with many loved ones. Though the transition from my once busy life to being caved inside my home was rough, reconnecting with nature was the first step in my journey of reclaiming and reevaluating the way I lived my life. My family home was near a lake, and once quarantine regulations were lifted, I often found myself by the lake. Sitting on the scratchy logs, I would stare into the distance, observing the dimples and waves that dug grooves into the water’s smooth surface, created by the slightest blow of wind, or the swift landing of a Hwamei bird. I would walk barefoot along the shore, feeling the abrupt, but welcoming feeling of the water splashing and wrapping around my ankles. I discovered that although I still had fears of the natural world, like how I still hate and fear the ocean, nature really wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Being more exposed to, and surrounded by, nature, I realized that it brought me peace and joy, and provided the headspace for me to heal and grow. 

Ever since I was a kid in kindergarten, I’ve known that people are also something that bring me happiness. Talking to people, listening to their stories, and sharing joy always warms my heart and brings a smile to my face. Since coming to Milton, one of the ways that I have bonded with people has been sharing my love and connection to skygazing with others. I remember a night after I came back from a track meet; a friend of mine had brought her blanket to the meet to stay warm, and after having some pizza in the ACC, I suggested we go on observatory hill to lie on the grass and take a break before returning to the dorm. By then, the sun had already set, and the sky was growing darker. We set the blanket down on the edge of the hill, and laid in silence for a while. 

Only an hour had gone by, and the sky was pitch black, decorated with faint specks of light. My friend said, “it’s so weird how we don’t see many stars anymore because of all the pollution.” I replied, “that’s only through the naked eye. The stars are actually still there, it’s just that you can’t see it.” My friend gave me a “friendly” shove, and joked that I could definitely prove that. Letting her sarcasm slide, I pulled out my phone to open the SkyGuide app. Being an amateur skygazer with a mother who’s also a skygazing-lover, I’ve had quite some experience with devices and apps that can make the skygazing experience more memorable. After showing my friend SkyGuide, which displayed a variety of astrology signs and stars in the sky on campus that night, she was mesmerized by the beauties of the stars and the moon. There was a full moon in the sky that night, and my friend, who has astigmatism, said “I wished I could see the moon and all the stars without the distortion–that would be awesome!” From then on, I’d always go outside to lay on the hammock or sit at the picnic tables between study halls and check in to take a few moments to look at the stars with my friend. 

Sharing my love of skygazing has also helped me to feel more connected with my childhood and dig back some memories, though many of them are still lost. A memory that I remember clearly now, are the instances where I would have special bonding moments with my mother. Losing her mother at 17, my mother found it difficult to bring up my grandma when I was a kid. Whenever I asked about my grandma, my mother would always try to tell me funny stories of my grandma, but those storytimes would always end up with tears, and so I refrained from prying too much growing up. However, the one thing that my mother never stopped telling me was that “the brightest star in the sky is always your grandma.” To cope with the trauma that she had, and to keep things light, my mom would make retelling stories of my grandma fun. On what we’d call “hip bump times,” named after the story of when my grandma would always bump my mother by the hips when she was walking, my mother and I would walk along the lake by my house, hand in hand, playing a game of who could find the brightest star in the sky. The winner had to shout out “grandma!”, or “外婆” (Wài Pó) in chinese, and whenever I won, I would always go home with a beaming smile on my face, declaring how I “found grandma” to my father and sister. Though my mother never really talked about my grandma much growing up, stargazing was a way for her to tell grandma’s story. 

I’ve never met my grandma before, but every time I look up to the sky, I remember the stories I’ve heard about her. She was the best cook and dancer in town, and I’m sure she can’t wait to hear the annual song tributes that my cousins and I perform for her at our family gatherings, which for your information, we’re downright awful and embarrassing. Whether through the ups or the downs in my life, and despite never having had the opportunity to share my stories with her, gazing at the stars at night make me feel more loved, seen, and connected to my grandma more than ever, and I’m grateful to share all the love the sky has to offer with my friends. After all, it is all written in the sky.