When once I wished upon a star

I was a child when I lifted my eyes. Up. Up from the arid rockscape, rusty riverbeds, dunes and craggy peaks. And then I saw her. Sparkling in the sky like a song, like a hole pierced through the black curtain of sky, revealing just one ray of the vast glory and brilliance beyond.

But it was not a hole for a hole is not a thing. Whatever this was, it was the opposite of that. It was an anti-hole, a non-hole, an un-hole.

Solid and whole and sparkling like a jewel. She sang to me and I stretched to meet her, not once blinking, not daring look away to the irritating things and sorts that called my attention. Down. Down from the deep heavens and the promise beyond. I lengthened every sinew, ligament and tendon of my soul and inched nearer, still nearer, though she seemed no closer than before. So I leapt and I ran and I stumbled, and I leapt again as she called me on.

I covered many miles in this way, though mostly along a horizontal plane, passionately persevering. For sometimes she felt so close that I could nearly curl my fingers around her. Nearly but never quite. Seemingly just beyond the grasp of my aching arms, just beyond the range of my aching legs and just beyond the will of my breaking heart. Finally, the burn in my neck insisted I abandon my skyward gaze but to my great surprise I found myself in a better country than before.

Brighter, more fragrant and fertile than the last. And I knew then that it had been good and right to follow that celestial body as I had. That it was good and right that I should follow her still. To follow her until I had her.

So I looked to my left and I looked to my right, for some structure or peak to lift me in my chase. Spotting a tall, craggy cliff, I ran to its base and mapped my course along its face, scarcely registering the risk. I climbed and clambered and soon found myself atop, towering above the valley from which it rose. Slowly I turned and my smile fell for I found with horror that the star was more distant than before. In my panic I grasped for my pack, unclasped the buckles and rifled through, a plan forming in my mind in feverish dreamlike wisps.

My fingers closed on the longest rope and I pulled it from the bag, running its length along my palm. I fastened a heart-sized stone to the end and with my left hand, grasped the other. With my right I grabbed the cord near the stone and swung it back and forth like a censer. I whirled it round and flung it t'wards the star. It was well flung, I thought as the stone arced towards the light. Then the rope pulled taught, fell and clattered against the face of the cliff. All was quiet for a moment, but then the stillness was replaced by a loud scraping as I heaved up the rope, coiled it at my feet and squared my shoulders back towards my quarry.

This rhythm settled over my life, for how long I do not know. My heart soared and sank, sank and soared with the whirring rope, the whistling stone, the snap of the fully extended rope…

Maybe this time. Maybe this time. Maybe this time. Maybe this time. Maybe this time.

…and then the hollow clunk of stone on stone.

Until one day, I knew what needed to be done. I gripped the rope with blistered, bleeding hands and fixed my eyes on that intoxicating star. I had to have her. Had to hold her. Had to have her for my own. That star or my life. I whirled the rope harder then, than I had before (my body was used to the effort by now). With all my heart I cast it out and, not waiting for the stone to find purchase, I let my feet slip from the crag where they’d been rooted and leaned all my weight on my end of the line.

I think I felt a tug, I thought as I woke on the ground beneath the cliff, bruised and bleeding, the rope lying like a snake between my hands.

In a fog, I gathered myself up with eyes towards the cliff. But then, all at once, I heard a sound. Voices. A clamor. As though I’d awakened in the midst of a large party – excited chatter, laughter and song. I looked around and realized that a crowd had indeed gathered but they were not laughing and pointing at me as I had feared but with sparkling eyes and animated voices, they were gazing and pointing at my star.

They had seen a strange man with his eyes fixed on the sky and had come to see what so captured his attention. And having found it in the heavens, cradled in the black beyond, they forgot the man and saw but the star.

I have been with this group for many years now. It has grown and shrunk as pilgrims come and go. I rarely stretch now to hold the star, though I encourage others in their own attempts. But we walk quietly towards it and we stay in its light, and in so doing, we invite others to do the same. Our eyes are often trained on that undimming star but we pay equal attention to the country we pass through and to the people we encounter along the way.

I suppose if I had gotten it then on that day in the rusty riverbed and among the stones – if I had reached and grasped the star and held it tightly in my hands – I suppose I might have stayed there, alone and in that country.