Unsure of Yourself - Dec 21 2022

 

Unsure of Yourself

Dec 21 2022

From low earth orbit

you can see the curve of the planet

against the black void of space.

The edge of the atmosphere,

eggshell thin

this distance

from mother earth.

Look down on clouds

so far below

that seem to hug the surface

far too close.

Witness from above

lightning noiselessly arc,

like synapses sparking

and axons firing

in a living human brain;

always somewhere

in the turbulent churning of air.

Except you wonder how life is possible

in such a hostile alien place.

Look the other way

and see how small you are.

How fragile

is the green and blue planet

your only home.

Where we are all astronauts

travelling through space

on life support.

Where the sky blocks the view,

and only far out at sea

on clear moonless nights

does a window on the cosmos open

for a brief privileged moment

and you feel the same as the astronaut,

an insignificant speck

suspended between

two vast and hostile oceans,

two bottomless voids.

Where the ship

that looked so impressive moored to the wharf

shrinks to a fragile speck of flotsam

tossed by the sea.

And where,

rocking roughly

as the ship pitches under your feet

you feel even smaller;

as unsure of your place in the universe

as your place on deck.

I think the common denominator of all experiences of awe – notably in the context of witnessing great spectacles of nature – is a feeling of smallness. We mostly go through life focused on ourselves, being self-referential, placing ourselves at the centre. When you are suddenly reduced to insignificance, it makes you doubt this solipsistic world view. It's a humbling experience that renders your previous certainties – your sense of yourself and your place in the world – far less sure. Here, the poem ends with a literal manifestation of that uncertainty. But, of course, it's also intended metaphorically.