Why Space?

I am often asked, “why do you like space stuff so much?” I find this odd for two reasons, (1) liking space “stuff” and science fiction isn’t really all that unique or unusual, and (2) a thriving space industry is part of my career livelihood, so um, duh. All that logic and reasonableness aside, I think the real question people might be asking is “doesn’t it frighten you?” Obviously, I’m taking a leap here, and I invite you to leap with me.

Usually, in a setting that allows for it, after chatting with someone they get right down to it. Space is daunting. Space is scary. It raises all kinds of existential questions that have no real answers and make us – meaning everyone on Earth – feel rather unimportant. So, often, the real question is that: “how can you enjoy that?!”

Let’s dive down that rabbit hole one concern at a time. This has a whole lot more to do with personal philosophy than it does with enjoying aeronautics and cool robots:

Space is daunting:
Yep, and that’s putting it mildly. We are small. So very very very very small. There are two ways to look at this. First, AHHH! OUR LIVES AND PURPOSE ARE MEANINGLESS IN COMPARISON TO THE GREAT EXPANSE OF TIME AND SPACE! Second, my problems aren’t really that big of a deal. I fall into the second category. I find the perspective of being merely a “pale blue dot” (Carl Sagan Shout Out!) rather comforting. Our pain, our strife, our fears are but a small piece in such a bigger puzzle. New beautiful things, endless adventure, endless opportunity is before us.

The expanse of the Universe humbles me.

Seriously, go to that ‘Carl Sagan Shout Out’ link. Makes me cry. Every time.

Space is scary:
Yep, and that’s putting it mildly. It is scary. So very very very very scary. What or who is out there? Are they watching us? Are we alone? Maybe it’s scarier to imagine we really are alone. AHHH! The cycle continues. I find this similar to how I view my spirituality, the unknown is comfort. I find peacefulness in knowing that in all likelihood the answers to all these daunting and scary questions is out of my realm of understanding. The answers may be so big the human mind is simply (currently) unable to even comprehend or conceive of the answers. Isn’t that cool?

A reality that exists beyond our current comprehension? That’s exciting. That’s beautiful. That’s invigorating. That, my friends, is the gift of hope. If we knew all the answers, had every piece of information on lock-down, where do we go from there? For me, the unknown is a place to go to find hope.

Do we matter?
That’s a personal question. Do we matter in the history of the Universe? I dunno. Does it matter if we matter? Have a cookie.

In Sum
That’s my “why” in regards to the “space question”

…besides the undeniable truth that spaceships and robots are freaking so cool.

Getting to Know You

When I was pregnant with my first I felt bonded immediately. I instantly knew that the pink line on that test was our Maxwell. I told people, “oh I know him, he’s a kind, zen, sensitive little person.” They kindly patted me on the head and said, “yes, pregnant lady.” Sure, I knew he’d be like any other small child, often full of energy and adventure, but I was right. Yes, the messes he creates aren’t the first thing one would associate with “zen” but overall I hit the nail on the head. He is my perspective. He is my lighthouse during the storm. Max is pretty sensitive to his own mistakes and to the feelings of others. I knew my baby and I was so very proud of that.

This pregnancy? This pregnancy I feel a little… unprepared? I bonded instantly in that we were very excited to learn I was pregnant, and due to the high risk nature of this pregnancy, because I felt so frightened of losing this pregnancy. Beyond that elation and that fear though, I have no clue. I thought it was a girl in there but can honestly say I wasn’t sure. I was right, she’s a she, but I have no clue what she’s like. She moves around a lot more than Max every did. She feels stronger somehow, but I don’t know her like I knew him. Perhaps this is because I haven’t the time to focus on her like I did with Max (a reality that already makes me a little sad) because I’m busy with a full time job and a two and half year old. She’s quietly and safely tucked in my uterus, so she can’t particularly command my attention like he can.

I don’t feel guilty, though. In some ways I feel excited. I can’t wait to meet her, watch her grow, figure out who I’ve shaped and grown.

I have no clue who we’re bringing home from the hospital this time, but I do feel certain of this, she’s one of ours.

Motherhood at 6:41AM

At 6:41 in the morning my first baby softly pads into my bedroom. I know I should be hard, send him back to his cold toddler bed for the last 19 minutes of night. But I’m not. He’s damp, couldn’t make it those last 19 minutes. The cat scared him. I strip him of his damp jammies and he carefully climbs into our big grown up bed. His soft young skin brushes mine as he curls into me. He clings to me, around the swollen belly holding my last baby. She gently kicks as if she knows she’s surrounded, he doesn’t notice. He curls so close Im reminded of carrying him. When I could keep him so safe, so protected from life. For 19 minutes I relish a rare moment. Holding both my babies, wrapped around me, skin to skin, womb to mother. For these minutes I can shield them both, cover them both, hold them both. I intended to fall back to sleep. Instead I stay awake thinking that I must remember every moment of this feeling. But 7:00 comes. My first baby, my small boy, jerks awake and announces he needs to poop and watch trains. His sister rolls over inside me. My alarm calls. We begin our daily march to their independence. But I still relish. For 19 minutes on a cold December morning I held all three of my hearts, nurtured all three of my souls.