So we saw this last night.
Amazing. Breathtaking. Spectacular. Me, at a loss for words — go figure. We took the Jeep out around 11 p.m., tops off, camera balanced on the roof, and let the brisk, clear night wrap around us. There was almost no light pollution, and the stars? A billion of them, scattered like glitter across the sky. I haven’t seen a night sky like that since we took our boys to Yosemite, nearly eight years ago. Gary set up for a long exposure, and the results were pure magic.
As the Milky Way blanketed the sky, I felt small and insignificant — and yet deeply grateful to be standing there, watching it unfold. The vastness of space made me think of my mom. I miss her deeply. But in that moment, I realized something: for however long we are lucky to be on this planet, we are always part of someone’s story.
We are like the stars.
We shine brilliantly, briefly.
And when we’re gone, our light still travels —
still reaches someone, somewhere.
Maybe even some small, insignificant person, standing quietly under the same sky.
Just some late-night thoughts while stargazing, helping Gary capture the sky one frame at a time. And my heart whispered to me that my mom was looking down, not just watching, but sharing this moment with me in some intangible, beautiful way.
It’s funny how you can feel so tiny and alone, while being surrounded by so many lights and so much space. But I don’t believe we’re alone in all that. And I do believe — with my whole heart — that there’s someplace else we all go after this.
That’s what I choose to believe.