Remembering the Stars

Six years ago on this feast of the Assumption of Mary I and my fellow campers woke up to snow. The night before we went to sleep under the stars, for once without a tent, and when we woke in the middle of the night we dashed back to the tents, for it was raining. And in the morning we woke up to snow. For a short time our little world of the Wind River Mountains was clothed in pure white, though it was the middle of August.

Today the freshmen of Wyoming Catholic College are on their second week of the three-week wilderness course that marks the beginning of their college career. Perhaps it is snowing on them, as it often seems to do on the 15th of August. Six years ago I too was in my second week of the wilderness course. Now, of course, it is slightly different: while in my time we used the National Outdoor Leadership School (affectionately known as the No Official Lunch School by my group), today’s freshmen go out with the Solid Rock Outdoor Ministries. Yet I am sure it is the same. I am sure the freshmen are just getting used to heavy backpacks, sleeping on the ground, and other uncomfortable situations involved in camping, and I am sure they are looking up at the same stars and feeling the same awe and wonder that I felt at the grandeur of God’s creation.

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” wrote Gerard Manley Hopkins. When I went on my NOLS trip I was unaware of that poem, yet those were my sentiments as I trekked the wilderness of the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming. Very often my legs ached, and my feet felt like lead, and I was so tired all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep. But those moments of intense beauty and awe were worth it. The views were amazing. Very often when I stood at the crest of a mountain or climbed to the top of a peak I thought to myself, how to describe this to someone? How does one describe sheer beauty? Or when we lay around the campfire one evening in our sleeping bags and watched the stars – the beautiful, bright, clear, stars. Nothing to block our view. No lights, no noise but the little noises of nature and the crackle of the fire. It makes you feel very small, very insignificant; but also very fortunate. I’ll never forget that night around the campfire. We were in a little valley just over the Continental Divide, resting for a few days after making the long and arduous climb over Texas Pass, a mere 11,400 feet in elevation. It was a lovely spot. There was a lake, and grass, and the mountains sloped up all around us like the rim of a giant bowl. And we could see the stars in such glory as I had never seen before or have never seen since.

The other night I lay outside on the swing with my little brother and we watched the stars. The stars are not as bright here in Tehachapi as they were in Wyoming. There are too many lights and too many trees. But they are still beautiful. We lay on the swing and talked and counted shooting stars, and I was peacefully happy. I marveled that those were the same stars I was seeing in the little valley in the mountains six years ago. I have always loved stars, but since my NOLS trip I have loved them even more. There is a comfort in the stars. Though people live and die, though civilizations rise and fall, the stars are always there. They have been there for thousands of years, and will be there for thousands more. In a world that is constantly changing around us, the stars are a fixed point that never changes.

Though my NOLS trip was hard – I would hardly describe myself as an “outdoorsy” type – I am glad to this day that I did it. It gave me new confidence, taught me to be still and listen, and it made me fall in love with God’s world. Out in the wilderness there is no time aside from the natural rising and setting of the sun, and you can hear yourself think. When you pray you feel that God is right beside you, listening. It is a slow life, but it is by no means a boring life. In the bustle of daily life I often forget the quiet beauty of nature, the Holy Ghost brooding over the world. But even if I forget at times, all I have to do is look up to the stars on a pleasant evening, and it all comes back to me. The pain, the mosquito bites, the blisters and tired legs. The sheer exhaustion. But most of all the grandeur of God.

Home is Where the Rain Smells Best

I feel no regret as the plane takes off from Dulles airport, partly because it is seven-thirty in the morning and I have been up since four, partly because it is summer vacation, and I am going home. Home. I settle back in my seat with The Grapes of Wrath unopened on my lap. I have been living in Virginia for nearly a year, but whenever I think of home I think of golden California. They say I am an east coast girl at heart; I was born in Connecticut after all. But I do not remember Connecticut at all. I was two when we moved. These days the east coast and the green of Virginia have been paying me suit, but when all is said and done, California – crazy, dry old California, got to me first.

The trip is long. Five hours on the plane, with one stop and one layover, is enough to try anyone’s patience. I am tired and my eyes feel scratchy from lack of sleep. My legs are getting cramped, and as usual the plane's air conditioning is slowly freezing me. I keep looking at the time, hoping it has moved, but it crawls at a snail’s pace. I try to catch some sleep, but I have never been good at sleeping in a moving vehicle, even if I have been up since four in the morning. I focus instead on editing the manuscript I have brought along, but soon grow tired of that. It is very easy to lose interest when you are on a very long plane trip. I would so much rather be on a train. A train trip across country takes several days, but it is leisurely and you can get up and move around. It is a mode of transportation that is much more friendly to the creative process.

I pull out The Grapes of Wrath again and find where I left off. The Joads are heading to California. I am heading to California. The Promised Land? Some may say yes, others no. The Joads said yes. The land of opportunity? Not these days. We are stuck in a recession as bleak as the neglected fields of the Joads’ homestead. Well, Promised Land, land of opportunity; whatever you may choose to call it, I call it home.

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California is dry. It has not rained much in the last year. Everything is brown and gold. The golden grass of California does something to a girl who has been gone for months. To see the wind, the ever-present wind, blow the grass gently or fiercely in turn, stirs the heart. You may say we are crazy. Oh, but it is true.

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At last, here is San Diego. I still have one layover and several hours left of my trip, but home is closer. I am now on California soil, so to speak. I begin to feel excitement deep in the pit of my stomach. It is either that or the motion of the plane. I wait in my seat as new passengers board the plane, bound for Sacramento. The seats next to me are empty, and I hope they will stay that way, but soon a man and woman slide in next to me, a middle-aged Oriental couple. They smile and we exchange the usual pleasantries of fellow passengers, then fall silent. I return to The Grapes of Wrath and wait for the plane to take off.

It takes off with the usual roar of sound. The woman next to me crosses herself and prays silently, much to my surprise, as that is what I am about to do. The flight to Sacramento is not long, and when we arrive I am glad to stretch my legs for a little while as I wait for my connection.

Another hour on the plane. This time, I sit next to a woman with a raspy smoker’s voice. She saves a seat for her husband who arrives soon after. He is a grisly bearded man with tattoos who smiles kindly at me. They are both very kind. The woman and I make small talk, and she offers me a stick of gum. They are on their way to Las Vegas. But I am going home.

Home. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Burbank…” My stomach jumps with excitement. The plane lands and I step out onto California soil. Well, asphalt, really. But no matter. This is California. This is where I belong.

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I will never forget the golden hills of my home. It is nothing like the lush green fields of the east coast, but it still does something to me every time I see it after a long absence. It is ingrained in me like my love of music and writing. I never will, never could forget. It has a song of its own, that golden grass. The wind whistles through it, bringing in the scent of wind-kissed sage grass. I have never particularly loved wind. In fact, it often drives me to distraction. But it too is ingrained in me, as is the golden grass. Sometimes the wind brings destruction, but sometimes it brings life. It blows in the spring, whisking away the deadness of the old year.

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The storm clouds gather on the horizon, and soon they loom overhead. We wait expectantly, hoping for the rain. We have not had rain in so long, not real rain. The air is charged with the expectancy of the coming rain. The wind blows the clouds around, rearranging them until they are primed for opening. The first drops fall and hit the dusty ground.

I sit at my desk by the open window. It is dark outside, and the fresh, pungent smell of California rain wafts in. There is nothing like the smell of this dry country during rain. It is fresh and delightful. It smells of wet earth and rabbitbrush. I can never grow tired of it. There is nothing else like it. I have missed the smell of the rain. In Virginia the rain just smells damp, and the air is heavy. Here the air is light and crisp. I forget how much I miss it until I come back.

They say home is where the heart is. While I am not fond of platitudes and clichés, I do believe this one to be true. Though I have been living on the east coast for nearly a year, it is not really home. Perhaps someday I will make my home permanently on the east coast, and perhaps I will come back to California. Perhaps I may even, as my father suggests, go to live in Switzerland, though the possibilities of that are rather slim. But as of now, my heart is not in the lush greenwoods of Virginia, but in the golden hills of California, and the majestic mountains. But most of all it is in the smell of a warm summer rain and the rustle of the wind in the leaves. Home is where the rain smells best.