Spring is in the air. I can feel it in my bones. Unfortunately, that’s no longer a figure of speech, but a physical reality, as the arthritis that runs in my family now sends exploratory twinges through my joints whenever the weather changes.
I am, admittedly, something of a fair-weather observer. I rarely break out my telescope during December, January, or February. I don’t like the cold, never have, never will. During the winter months, I’m usually satisfied to do quick sessions of naked-eye stargazing, eliminating the need for long johns, clunky boots, and layering. Reconnecting with the familiar patterns of the winter sky—Orion’s hourglass, Canis Major’s upside-down “Y,” Auriga’s pentagon—and reassuring myself that they’re still there, just where I left them, proves to be as bracing as the cold slap of night air that accompanies our reunion.
It was an evening in March when I began my life as an amateur astronomer, when observing the sky became the context for my life. So March always feels to me like the start of stargazing season. And each time it rolls around, I can’t help but recall my first tentative forays into what I call “deep-sky diving.”
The comparison to scuba diving is no accident. When, as a beginner, I began attending star parties at my astronomy club’s private observatory, there was, on each occasion, a moment when I had to give up the daylight and surrender myself to the dark. I had to psych myself up each time to make that transition—to turn on my red flashlight and begin picking my way around the observing field equipped only with that dim, eerily-colored light. To be, in essence, completely out of my element.
Ironically, this fish-out-of-water feeling reminded me of the scuba diving vacation I took on the island of St. Croix, many moons ago. I had never been scuba diving and hadn’t had a single lesson (not even in a pool), but I had an irresistible desire to go. So I capriciously enrolled in a certification course down there, and off I went.
I was completely unprepared for the physical fear I would experience in letting go of my terrestrial, atmosphere-breathing self in order to immerse myself in a water-world. My first day in the ocean was spent in a series of exercises that each ended with my panicked bolt to the surface, where my exasperated instructor would berate me (as he should have) for doing something that was potentially hazardous to my health.
Then he had a breakthrough, and took me into shallow water (like a pool, perhaps?). He had me do exercises there until I became more comfortable with breathing underwater, moving me gradually into deeper water. Then I had my breakthrough, reaching that pivotal moment when my awe at the undersea world to which I had mysteriously gained access overtook my fear of relying on a regulator and tank for each breath.
By the end of the week, I was confidently doing 60-foot dives in open water and exploring dazzling, brilliantly-hued coral reefs.
And so it was to be a novice sky observer. The unfamiliar star patterns, the totally foreign equipment, the strange lingo, and the breadth of science knowledge those intense people-of-the-dark had—all were terribly intimidating. In that state of nervous excitement, making the transition from light to dark made me gasp for air like a panicky diving student. It wasn’t fear of the dark, but rather fear of the unknown, loss of control, and being out of my comfort zone that squeezed my chest those first few months.
Like breathing underwater, I got used to seeing in the dark. I learned which end of the telescope to look into, how to get the Moon into a telescope, how to identify naked-eye star patterns and find my way around the sky, what a glorious thing a globular cluster is, how to spot the pencil line of the Cassini Division in the rings of Saturn. It helped that I was on a mission, finally fulfilling a life-long interest and deeply-held desire. Pushing through the discomfort each time made me a little less uneasy for the next. Each new skill I acquired, each new term I learned, each new object I observed: each gave me a little bit more confidence and stoked my passion.
The first time I looked through a telescope, I was 43. I didn’t know what a star was, had no idea why the Moon looked the way it did as it went through its phases, couldn’t find the North Star. If you’re younger than 43 and are interested in getting started in hobby astronomy, don’t wait as long as I did. Do it now. The younger your eyes are, the more nuances you’re likely to see in celestial objects and the more years you’ll have to train your eyes to pick out those nuances.
If you’re older than 43, hop to it. Time’s a-wasting. There’s a lot to see out there in your universe. The more you find out, the more you’ll want to know, so you’d better get started. Trust me on this.
Whenever, however, wherever: embrace the dark. Oh, and don’t forget to breathe.
Showing posts with label amateur astronomy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amateur astronomy. Show all posts
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Moon in the Balance
I am torn.
As an amateur astronomer, I must arrange my observing life around avoidance of the Moon; wait impatiently for it to set; nervously watch the eastern horizon for its arrival; hide from it behind trees, rock outcroppings, vehicles, and outhouses; wail and curse it when it appears. Let’s face it, that old incandescent Moon is the bane of every hunter of "faint fuzzies": deep-sky objects pursued with telescopes, binoculars, and much lurching about in pitch-dark places.
As a human being, though, I must marvel at the Moon and think how lucky we are. We have a natural satellite that shows us, through its phases, that it revolves around us. When it covers the Sun during a solar eclipse or moves into the Earth’s shadow during a lunar eclipse, we have a glimpse into the clockwork of the universe. We have a naked-eye view of the surface of another solar system body. We even have a cosmic timepiece that ticks along reliably enough to give us the basis for our system of calendar months. (Did you know the word month is derived from the Old English word for moon, mona?)
The approach of Full Moon on Friday the 18th has me pondering what I’d do if given the power to choose between keeping the Moon or banishing it forever. A giddy free-for-all of deep-sky diving, unfettered by the lunar cycle, versus a glowing orb that has inspired humans throughout history to pen poems, create art, write songs, do science, and pitch woo. The everlasting happiness and gratitude of my stargazing brethren versus the artistic, scientific, and romantic outpourings of the human race. It would be a tough call.
There are some practical reasons to keep the Moon. In a previous post, I discussed precession, the slight wobble of Earth’s axis. This wobble is caused by gravitational tugging by both the Sun and the Moon. If the Moon were removed from the picture, Earth’s wobble would destabilize, becoming more erratic and pronounced. This would most likely result in dramatic climate changes.
Another reason to hang on to our satellite has to do with tides. The combined gravitational pull of Sun and Moon causes the cyclical rise and fall of Earth’s oceans, the tides. Although the removal of just the Moon would not eliminate the tides, it would certainly disrupt them. The feeding and breeding activities of various marine and shore creatures could be severely impacted.
Even if we subtract these practical considerations from the equation, ultimately I think I’d miss the Moon if it were gone. I’d miss how the waxing crescent looks like a big, happy tangerine slice before it sets, and a crescent in the clouds like a shark fin slicing through seafoam. I’d miss that loopy Moon illusion that makes the rising Full Moon look unnaturally big. I’d recall the lunar eclipses I’ve watched and how the Moon in Earth’s shadow always turned red--sometimes russet, sometimes scarlet. I’d miss the gasps and whoops that a telescopic view of the Moon’s crater-pocked surface elicits at public astronomy events. I’d miss my own telescopic tramps across the Moon and moments of discovery. Strangely, I think I’d even miss the collective groan that rumbles across a star party’s observing field when the Moon bobs up in the east.
So, at the end of the day, with all that fateful power at my fingertips, I’d have to give La Luna the thumbs-up. Of course, I’d also have to change my name, move out of state, and never show my face at another star party. Anywhere. Perhaps we should keep this just between us.
As an amateur astronomer, I must arrange my observing life around avoidance of the Moon; wait impatiently for it to set; nervously watch the eastern horizon for its arrival; hide from it behind trees, rock outcroppings, vehicles, and outhouses; wail and curse it when it appears. Let’s face it, that old incandescent Moon is the bane of every hunter of "faint fuzzies": deep-sky objects pursued with telescopes, binoculars, and much lurching about in pitch-dark places.
Faint Fuzzies: Hickson 44 galaxy group
As a human being, though, I must marvel at the Moon and think how lucky we are. We have a natural satellite that shows us, through its phases, that it revolves around us. When it covers the Sun during a solar eclipse or moves into the Earth’s shadow during a lunar eclipse, we have a glimpse into the clockwork of the universe. We have a naked-eye view of the surface of another solar system body. We even have a cosmic timepiece that ticks along reliably enough to give us the basis for our system of calendar months. (Did you know the word month is derived from the Old English word for moon, mona?)
The approach of Full Moon on Friday the 18th has me pondering what I’d do if given the power to choose between keeping the Moon or banishing it forever. A giddy free-for-all of deep-sky diving, unfettered by the lunar cycle, versus a glowing orb that has inspired humans throughout history to pen poems, create art, write songs, do science, and pitch woo. The everlasting happiness and gratitude of my stargazing brethren versus the artistic, scientific, and romantic outpourings of the human race. It would be a tough call.
There are some practical reasons to keep the Moon. In a previous post, I discussed precession, the slight wobble of Earth’s axis. This wobble is caused by gravitational tugging by both the Sun and the Moon. If the Moon were removed from the picture, Earth’s wobble would destabilize, becoming more erratic and pronounced. This would most likely result in dramatic climate changes.
Another reason to hang on to our satellite has to do with tides. The combined gravitational pull of Sun and Moon causes the cyclical rise and fall of Earth’s oceans, the tides. Although the removal of just the Moon would not eliminate the tides, it would certainly disrupt them. The feeding and breeding activities of various marine and shore creatures could be severely impacted.
Even if we subtract these practical considerations from the equation, ultimately I think I’d miss the Moon if it were gone. I’d miss how the waxing crescent looks like a big, happy tangerine slice before it sets, and a crescent in the clouds like a shark fin slicing through seafoam. I’d miss that loopy Moon illusion that makes the rising Full Moon look unnaturally big. I’d recall the lunar eclipses I’ve watched and how the Moon in Earth’s shadow always turned red--sometimes russet, sometimes scarlet. I’d miss the gasps and whoops that a telescopic view of the Moon’s crater-pocked surface elicits at public astronomy events. I’d miss my own telescopic tramps across the Moon and moments of discovery. Strangely, I think I’d even miss the collective groan that rumbles across a star party’s observing field when the Moon bobs up in the east.
Observing field at a star party
So, at the end of the day, with all that fateful power at my fingertips, I’d have to give La Luna the thumbs-up. Of course, I’d also have to change my name, move out of state, and never show my face at another star party. Anywhere. Perhaps we should keep this just between us.
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