Once Again, He Has Stars in His Eyes

A long time ago--so it seems--watching the stars was a natural part of my life.

I lived in a small town along California’s north coast. Life was easygoing, and looking up was instinctive in a place where city lights paled in comparison to the bright glitter in the sky.

There were many drives to the beach or to a clearing in the redwood forests to track the positions of the constellations. From summer to winter, the stars danced around Polaris.

But somewhere along the line, perhaps as I grew accustomed to the faster lifestyle of Southern California, watching the stars became a less-routine part of my day.

I thought about that a few nights ago when the bright night sky caught my attention as I walked near my Simi Valley home. In the four years I’ve lived in Southern California, I thought, I’ve seldom taken a moment to look at the stars.

It occurred to me that lost along with those quiet moments under the stars were things that were important to me and that I had time to think about then--religion, science, music and, as corny as it might sound, the meaning or meaninglessness of life.

After years of not watching the dance in the night sky, it took several minutes to figure out which stars were which. They were like long-lost friends who bring back fond memories, but whose names you’ve begun to forget.

The moon was shaved a bit around its southwest side. Sometime ago I would have known whether it was waxing or waning, what time it had risen and what time it would set, probably because I’d followed its progress from night to night that whole year.

But back then, I also knew the positions of the stars and what planets were visible just by the time of year.

This recent night, beginning to recognize the stars brought back some of the thrill amateur astronomers feel when they spot their first constellation.

By the moon was Orion, its belt sandwiched between the two bright stars.

To the north of the moon there was Gemini, the two friends who travel the sky together. Cassiopeia, to the northwest, looked like an upside down M.

Trees blocked my view of due north, but I knew Polaris was still somewhere up there, at the start of the Little Dipper, which would have been pouring into the Big Dipper.

Back when I watched the stars, the beach--a few miles from town--was always cold and empty, and the “city” lights were far away.

Watching the stars was a way of life because I had grown dependent on that quiet time each day to reflect--sometimes about simple things, such as where life was taking me.

Other times, I thought about deeper things--frequently lingering questions from my philosophy and physics classes--such as why the atoms in my body composed a thinking being, while some of the same atoms composed the waves that gently wet the tips of my shoes.

I wondered whether in faraway places--such as Pleiades, the faint smear of stars I could see with my own eyes--there was someone like me, looking in my direction and pondering the same questions.

If I was happy or sad, if life was easy or hard, I could always count on driving down to the beach and thinking while I watched the stars.

In Southern California, generally, it’s not often that one looks up at the sky. The city lights are brighter, the smog is thick and life offers a faster pace and more distractions.

This recent night it made me sad to realize that the rat race, in some ways, has shrunk my world to a shallow existence of work, commutes and artificial entertainment, where once it was broad, where once there was time for intellectual introspection.

I guess it’s a trade-off. In Southern California, there is often better work, material things and city life. But there’s a part of me that has never felt at home, the part that would be perfectly happy leading that simpler life--in a place where watching the stars and where the natural cycles play a more intimate role in a person’s existence.

Jose Cardenas can be reached by e-mail at jose.cardenas@latimes.com.