Last week, after recommending that people go out and try to spot the ultra-rare Jupiter-Saturn conjunction, I did something even rarer: I took my own advice. This cosmic display felt too important to miss.
So just after sunset, we bundled up the kids, tossed them in the car, and drove to a spot with a clear view of the horizon. I had my doubts about whether we’d see anything at all, given that a hulking line of clouds – the kind that look like far-off mountains – were obscuring the bottom 10% or so of the sky, and I’d heard that the pair of planets were sitting fairly low on the horizon.
But we didn’t mind. We had our hot chocolate, and it was a refreshingly chilly evening. We were at a park on the edge of a large bay, and the water had frozen perfectly flat. The feeling of stillness was almost eerie; perfect for observing distant planets. Perfect for witnessing important planetary events.
Our kids, six and three, began dutifully crushing ice with their boots, as all kids aged six and three are contractually obliged to do. My wife and I watched their silhouettes as they collected rocks by the frozen shoreline and began using them as chisels to free other rocks from the ice. I had one of those moments that parents get every once in a while; moments of parental existentialism when it seems impossible that you helped create those tiny humans. You don’t know those people. Who are they anyway?
The two small silhouettes, one slightly bigger than the other, continued singing and chattering to themselves, throwing rocks onto the frozen bay and being very pleased as the rocks skidded off into the darkening distance.
I scanned the horizon, but Jupiter and Saturn were nowhere to be seen.
My wife looped her arm into mine. “Do you think we missed it?”
“Maybe. Probably behind those clouds.”
We agreed to stay a bit longer, as we still had some hot chocolate left and the two small people were still enjoying themselves.
As I continued watching them, I started thinking about the past year, and how being at home together had really allowed our kids to get to know each other. Their relationship had blossomed, and it was probably the brightest silver lining of the past twelve months as far as our family was concerned. I thought about some of the other silver linings I’d heard from family and friends…the various workarounds and improvisations forced upon them by COVID that had led to improvements in home life or work life or personal life.
My toes were getting pretty cold. Where were those stupid planets? We had to stay. It was important.
Nobody would assert that COVID has been a good thing. I certainly wouldn’t. But I think many people have undergone a bit of perspective-shifting that might, in the long run, be for the best. Re-assessing things like work-life balance, relationships, even bigger societal questions, questions about the kind of world we should be working to create.
The smaller of the two small people said she was getting cold, and as it was clear that we had missed the hour-after-sunset window for Jupiter and Saturn’s little dance, we decided to call it a night.
One more stop on the way back though: the annual Christmas lights in another park just down the shore. On the brief drive over, the kids spoke excitedly about the cool sounds the rocks made when thrown out on to the frozen bay. They seemed to have forgotten that the whole point of the excursion was to see a celestial event centuries in the making.
The light show was as modest and quaint as it is every year; one of those small-town-trying-hard events that’s endearing in the way an undersized teenager wearing his dad’s suit is endearing. We walked under illuminated snowflakes, past the Grinch, Santa’s workshop, tree after sparkling tree.
Our two small people, now silhouetted by the lights, ran from display to display, as if this was the best night imaginable. I felt a wave of gratitude for their uninhibited joy, along with the slight touch of sadness one gets when witnessing something that will not last forever.
Then I looked up past the trees and saw two points of light in the sky.
One slightly bigger than the other.
“Is that a plane, or is it Jupiter and Saturn?”
My wife looked up. “Where? That? Isn’t that a bit too high on the horizon?” We stared and squinted, trying to work out what we were seeing.
“It’s definitely not a plane. I think that’s it.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be brighter?”
“I don’t know. I thought they’d be a bit closer together.”
We discovered later that what we had seen was, in fact, the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. We had seen the important thing. But in the moment – watching those two silhouettes, surrounded by hundreds of Christmas lights paid for with small-town tax dollars, thinking about the year behind and the year that lay ahead – “important” became relative.
What makes this a beautiful song:
1. Australian producer sad face is an enigmatic figure whose web presence spans all the regular outlets, but tells virtually nothing about him. His Spotify bio is all of fourteen words: “maybe through our shared melancholy we can find some sort of comfort and meaning.” Not a bad epitaph for 2020.
2. Few ingredients create melancholy quite like the combination of crisp piano and tinny dialogue from old movies.
3. The opening moments lead the listener to believe that the minor-key arpeggios in the piano are going to be the focal point of the song, but by 2.35 the song has opened up, and the focus has shifted to a simple (major-key) melody, with notes played in pairs.
Recommended listening activity:
Standing at your front door and looking at the furthest visible object from you. And then looking at your feet.