Every Morning Should Begin with a Cold Shower
A Meteor Shower, That Is (On Waiting for the Orionids this Morning, plus, a poem)
Yesterday morning, when I took Bonnie out before leaving for work, the night sky above me told a thousand stories. We rounded the house under starlight, the big dipper pouring fairie dust over our steps. I walked blind, unable to lower my eyes from the lightshow, my neck already stiff from up-looking. I said hello to Orion, just as a meteor streaked from his belt. Ah! Yes! I thought. The Orionid meteor shower is this week! I lingered longer than usual, wistfully praying for another glimpse of streaking light, but Bonnie did not like the dew-soaked grass and she tugged on her leash to go back inside to her warm bed. I made a mental note to remember, to make a deliberate effort to watch for shooting stars.
To listen to this post (and Bonnie snoring, and Jeff playing guitar in the background):
And I am an amnesiac because through the course of the day, after seeing one patient after another, I completely forgot the gift of the morning lights. So, when my eyes opened at four-thirty a.m. this morning, and I heard a whisper on the edge of my dreams—remember? it susurrated in my ear—though my bed was warm and I knew the pre-dawn air would be cold, I heeded its quiet insistence.
I tiptoed downstairs and rummaged in the hall closet for my big puffy coat and a soft toboggan. Then I wrapped myself in a fleece blanket and walked out under the night sky. It was chilly, in the mid-thirties, but with my fleecy insulation, it didn’t feel too bad. The only thing that got cold was my bare feet, so I tucked them in under the blanket and lay down on my back, making sure I had Orion in my sights. Our little neighborhood has its share of light pollution, but the autumn sky was clear and the stars above me winked their bright white light.
I kept my gaze soft, trying to widen my scope, aware the meteors don’t care where I expect them to be. After about half an hour, I had seen nothing but the brilliant still sky, a couple airplanes, and one wandering satellite. Shower my eye, I thought to myself, disappointedly. But I couldn’t be too sad, as the cold stung my face, nipped my nose, heightened my awareness of this amazing dome spread out above me. When was the last time I had gotten lost in the night sky, let it hold me and sweeten the day to come? Too long. If all I see is this feast of sugared sky, I thought, it will be enough. I shifted my focus to the sounds around me. At first all I heard was the sound of distant traffic, but I focused deeper and heard the songs of various insects and a barred owl call nearby, but mostly … silence. This, in itself, added to my sense of smallness and I felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude wash over me.
I began to grow sleepy in my cozy nest and I whispered words of love up to the heavens, thinking I might give in to this heaviness in my eyes, my body, my spirit. Just then, out of the corner of my eye … meteor! shooting from Rigel, giving my heart a lift. Then came two more in rapid succession, one straight through the hunter’s tight belt, the other seeming to come straight out of Betelgeuse, that red supergiant. And I was awake now and for some reason, my cheeks were damp from fresh tears. Thank you, I whispered to the Sky. Thank you.
Bonnie was waiting for me just inside the door. I’d been outside for forty-five minutes, only seeing meteors in the last fifteen. But every second under that night sky was restorative. I trudged back inside and curled up on the couch, Bonnie spooning my abdomen and giving me a little bit of her puppy warmth.
I fell back to sleep with starlight on my skin, swallowing the night into my dreams.
**
Here’s a little poem I wrote several years ago after watching for the Orionid meteors.
A Poem is a Meteor
(inspired by From the “Adagia” by Wallace Stevens. And life.)
this morning at 5:23, I
rose in the dark, went
out back and lay myself
flat in the sleeping dew to
watch for meteors
it was past peak for the
Orionid showers but
still, I focused my eyes
on the radiant point, just
beyond Betelgeuse
the damp soaked through
my robe; the French doors, a
frame of light, illuminated
Bonnie, waiting on the stair—
licking paws to pink
above, a glitter-flecked
sky shimmered stories in the
night, as light began to spill
on the horizon. and I, still
and shivering, waiting,
trying to catch a poem.




This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing how wonderful it is to look at stars.
Have you heard about Comet Lemmon? It’s in the northwest sky by The Big Dipper. It’s supposed to be visible. Around 8.