A Message from the Stars

By Elizabeth Wood

Writing 111: Writing Seminar

 

 

 

 

 

Thirteen point six billion years ago, the universe was dark. For 200 million years, all of existence consisted of a vast, infinitely expanding void of near nothingness, with a few particles of somethingness here and there. Then something incredible happened: out of the empty nothingness of the universe came masses of light and heat, without which there would be no planets, no Earth, no life, no humanity. What is more, of the 100 billion stars which the universe has created for us, but one is needed to sustain life. One star gave rise to you and to me and has continued to light our world every day, a star which we call the Sun. As its path moves from us each night, however, we are not left without light. The vast darkness above us provides light from thousands of stars, some of which no longer exist but are so far away that the light they emitted a thousand years ago is just now reaching us. And so, the universe has provided us with this reminder: there is light within the infinite darkness.

It is by this thought that the stars allure me. I am drawn to their beauty, to their mystique. Although I once believed there was nothing special about a few stars in the sky, annual camping trips with my family have shown me otherwise. These camping trips have sparked my love for nature and inspired my fascination with the stars, both of which I did not appreciate until I was about 10 years old. Before then, I complained of foot pain on hikes, bugs, feeling too hot or too cold. My hiking boots rubbed my heels in a way that gave them blisters. My jacket made me sweat, but I didn’t want to carry it. And then, in one single night, my dread for camping turned to euphoria with the help of the vast abundance of stars. Never before had I seen so many! Why did this part of the sky have many more stars than the part of the sky that I saw at home? As my parents and brother and I sat around the campfire, wool blankets on our laps and hands sticky from roasting marshmallows, my dad explained to me that I was not, in fact, seeing a different part of the sky. “The sky that we see is all one,” he described, “and these same stars are still there at home, we just cannot see them. Out here deep in nature, there are no city lights to interfere with our view of the stars.” While their incredible array provided me with a deep sense of both optimism and peace that night, their disappearance upon returning home left me feeling not only unsatisfied, but also angry. I wanted to be able to see the stars like this every night. Others were living in naivety, and I wanted them to discover the truth about stars as I had.

Ever since that night, the stars have revealed themselves to me while camping time and time again, compelling my anger to deepen. The loss of stars has led me to feel angry towards civilization for forgetting about them, and it has led me to pursue answers as to why we cannot see stars in a city. Furthermore, it has compelled me to question whether the benefits of modern technology are worth the price of losing the sight of stars. In my exploration, I have found mostly objective reasons why we cannot see stars in a city, but the implications of the loss of starlight are subjective.

There are several reasons that most stars are invisible in a city, each of which falls under the objective category of light pollution. According to Lockwood, light pollution is the phenomenon in which artificial light from street lamps, buildings, houses, or the like streams into the atmosphere and blocks our natural view of space. This phenomenon is similar to that of driving at night when another car comes towards you with its bright lights on; the glare impairs your vision of objects in the darkness around you that you would otherwise be able to see. On a larger scale, artificial lights from cities and on streets are so bright that we can only see the dull glow of ten or fewer of the thousands of stars above us. Ninety-nine percent of the U.S. population is affected by light pollution, but we are not alone. Few people realize that this phenomenon afflicts not only the human population but also that of plant and animal species across the globe (Lockwood, sec. headnote).

Light pollution is seemingly harmless. It is reasonable to assume that because it is just light, it does not affect air composition the way that other pollutants, such as burning coal, do. In fact, unlike gases or smoke, in many countries, light pollution is not legally considered a “statutory nuisance” (Dewar, para. 9). Under the United Kingdom’s Environmental Protection Act, for example, a statutory nuisance is defined as anything that affects one’s property or health (National Archives). Many believe, therefore, that sheer light cannot harm the natural environment, and thus, its only loss is aesthetic. We are the only known species that values art and beauty the way that we do, and although we no longer need constellations to serve a practical purpose such as navigation and orientation, we innately recognize the beauty of their abundance and are drawn to its aesthetic. One might argue that this alone is not a strong enough reason to preserve stars at the cost of eliminating artificial light, which is imperative in our modern world. Artificial light is necessary for driving at night and for other safety precautions, such as preventing crime, among others. Light pollution will not harm us, most believe, but the lack of artificial light will.

Few realize, however, that light pollution is actually extremely detrimental to both human individuals and other species as well. One study published in Global Change Biology found that “in free-living animals, light pollution is associated with changes in circadian, reproductive, and social behavior” and that it “affects disease dynamics [among free-ranging wild animals]” (Ouyang, et al., abstract). In other words, light pollution is affecting the day-night cycle of animals, the implications of which are broader than expected. When the sleep cycle within a 24-hour day is disturbed, social behavior and the ability to reproduce are also disturbed, and each of these factors contributes to the onset of disease in animals. Not only does light pollution affect animal species, but it also is detrimental for humans. Light pollution most obviously leads to sleep deprivation for us, but that is not all. Sleep deprivation may seem insignificant, but caused by light pollution in the long term, it has been linked to chronic diseases, such as heart conditions and cancer (Lockwood, para. 5). It is clear, therefore, that light pollution is not harmless. Its significant effect is not to be neglected. We must examine the ways in which light pollution can be reduced, not only because the galaxy is extraordinarily beautiful, but also because our failure to do so is detrimental to our health and to that of plant and animal species globally.

According to scientist Charles Lockwood of the American Planning Association, reducing light pollution is relatively easy. It can be done, he believes, with four simple steps. First and foremost, the wattage of outdoor lighting should be reduced. Most porch lights, for example, use a 60 or 75-watt bulb when only about 40 watts are necessary. Lockwood notes that outdoor lighting manufacturers are all developing “dark sky friendly lighting,” and he suggests that both individuals and municipal subsidiaries can easily make an effort to implement this. Secondly, light pollution can be reduced by simply directing the light from street lamps downward to help reduce the spread of light where it is not needed. Similarly, the third step is to shield the light with “cutoff lights,” which shine from the sides and bottom of a fixture so that it does not shine up into the sky. Lastly, Lockwood suggests lowering the height of the light pole to further concentrate the stream of light (Lockwood, page 2).  Individuals, like yourself, can and should take these steps to reduce their contribution to light pollution. On a larger scale, moreover, governmental adoption of these practices, as well as others which they deem necessary as light pollution ordinances, will reduce light pollution globally and help to restore our beautiful stars.

My anger towards society for enabling light pollution is pacified with the knowledge that the problem can be mostly undone. So long as it persists, we should implore local and federal governments to establish light pollution-reduction ordinances. And so long as it persists, we must make every effort to eliminate our individual contribution to its existence. The vast majority of future generations will live their entire lives having never seen the Milky Way galaxy; it will be difficult for them to even recognize that this is a problem – one not of what we can see but what we cannot (Lockwood para. 1). If they cannot see the galaxy for themselves, we must tell them our stories. We must not let them forget it.

This brings me to the culmination of my love story with stars, to the story I will tell my children and my grandchildren. It was January of 2017 and the beginning of the end of high school. Nine peers, two teachers, and I backpacked through the rainforest and mountains of Panama for three weeks, during which time something incredible happened; it was as if my demand for knowledge and answers morphed into a simple curiosity and awe towards the universe. Up to that point I had lived my life with a sense of existential disquietude, with a dissatisfaction arising from my idea that I will never possess objective, definitive answers regarding the meaning of life. On January 12th, 2017, this changed.

It was night, and we had no means for telling time, but for hours, my peers and I lay on the black-sand beach of a small, uninhabited peninsula in the Darien. Our hair was dirty, and our feet and backs were sore from hiking, and to rest on the soft ground felt surprisingly therapeutic. The cool sand relieved our backs as it molded to the shape of our bodies like a memory foam mattress. The fresh ocean smell overcame that of the layer of dirt and sweat that had accumulated over each of our bodies during our long day’s hike. In some moments we discussed our coming graduation and its implications, what we wanted to do with our lives, what it meant to live and die. In other moments we were silent, listening to the sounds of the ocean and jungle and mesmerized by the universe above and around. Above me was the most breathtaking array of stars I have ever seen and may ever. Millions of white dots infiltrated the infinite nothingness, several of them shooting briefly here and there. As I lay silent and motionless, they began to hypnotize me, pulling me towards them, making me feel as if I were among them. I realized that I was among them, that I was an infinitesimal fleck in the spectrum of the universe. I existed in the universe, and I need not know why or why the universe itself existed. All that mattered was that we did, and that I appreciated it. Now, over a year later I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, my message from the stars: 

I welcome joy with open arms

And anger and sorrow and pain

For I do not know if the meaning of life

Is simply to feel the rain.

 

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Works Cited

Dewar, David. “MPs Demand the Right to a Clear Sky at Night.” Planning; London, no. 1541, Oct. 2003, p. 9.

“Environmental Protection Act 1990.” The National Archives, 1990, https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1990/43/part/III.

Lockwood, Charles. “Let There (Not) Be Light.” Planning; Chicago, vol. 70, no. 3, Mar. 2004, pp. 22–24.

Ouyang, Jenny Q., et al. “Restless Roosts: Light Pollution Affects Behavior, Sleep, and Physiology in a Free-Living Songbird.” Global Change Biology, vol. 23, no. 11, Nov. 2017, pp. 4987–94. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1111/gcb.13756.

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A Word from Elizabeth

When prompted to write a narrative of advocacy, immediately I wondered what amazing story I could tell regarding a single event that changed my life, a story that advocates for something deeper with which everyone might easily agree. What was the hardest thing I’d ever been through, what is something many people are extremely passionate about, what is something amazing I’ve done? Nothing worthy came to mind. After days of pondering, it slowly dawned on me that I was approaching the essay with the wrong questions. An essay that tells an amazing story of an incredible accomplishment or horrific tragedy will not likely be able to advocate for anything unusual. Furthermore, I need not advocate for something that many people already care about; instead, it is my job to recreate in others that same passion that I myself hold about the issue. And so I chose one that is near and dear to my heart: light pollution.

In my development as a writer, I have learned that my most well-written essays tend to be those with topics I care deeply about. Correspondingly, my worst essays are those with topics for which either I hastily chose, or I thought readers may care about, while I myself did not care much about them. If I had been prompted to write a narrative of advocacy early in high school, for example, I likely would have chosen to write about suicide prevention, gun laws, sexual assault awareness, or the like. Each of these is a major issue that others may be likely to relate to, but for each I am hardly qualified to narrate a personal story that will do the issue justice. I would be lacking a deeply-rooted passion behind the topic, and it would be difficult to forge one. By comparison, light pollution is a regularly unnoticed phenomenon, and it is seemingly impersonal; thus, to advocate against it through narrative is difficult. Nonetheless, the advocacy is made tremendously less difficult because I am passionate about it, and, in fact, that others are not as passionate, I have learned, is what gives me a reason to write.

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From Professor Elisabeth Whitehead