Living in a city, everything is bigger. Squished together, but still somehow bigger. When I was young, I grew up on a farm in a small northern town. One of my favorite past times was looking up at the stars. I would spend hours on a blanket outside, or sneaking into the hay field where, if caught was I bound to get an ear full. In the city I miss the stars the most. It’s too bright here. Even on the darkest nights, there are no stars.

Learning the constellations brought comfort to my world. Like a blanket of never ending vastness. It made my problems feel small. I think this is where my love of mythology also started. After all, the stars tell a story.

When viewing the abyss through young eyes it was sometimes hard to tell the difference between a plane and and satellite when l ways secretly hoping to find ET instead. Planes were so small, tiny specks moving across the sky. Here in the city, I live considerably closer to the airport and plans are huge. I’ve been on them, so yes… But when I see them in the sky, I can nearly make out people.

It would be easy to roll my eyes at the noise and let this marvel become mundane. But what kind of life would that be? I dread the day when I forget that life is more enjoyable with awe moments. They are big and they are small and I am thankful they are a plenty.