if there’s any kind of magic in this world 💞

& a visit to the planetarium

A few weeks ago, I went to the planetarium at the Natural History Museum – a dome theater, reclined seats, two dear friends, and Lupita Nyong'o's voice narrating an immersive interstellar journey through our solar system. In the midst of an overload of scientific fact, I found myself thinking: this is where poetry comes from. 

In an interview given after the release of the images from the James Webb Telescope, Neil deGrasse Tyson was asked about his hopes for the telescope. His response stayed with me, something along the lines of: There is the satisfaction of getting answers to the questions posed. But when it comes to the cosmos, I yearn for the questions I don’t yet know to ask.

The questions I don’t yet know to ask. The questions that are invisible to us, but are no less questions. It’s in that realm - the one beyond the reaches of the mind - where art takes over from science. Intuition from logic, faith from certainty. 

Science guides the ways of the physical world, while poetry decodes the ways of the metaphysical. Science guides us to treat an ailing heart, while poetry soothes a broken one. I think of the evergreen words of Rumi, whose poetry feels like years of therapy distilled into individual pearls:

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

To me, these words hold just as much unshakeable truth and a blueprint to life as Newton’s laws.

don’t even get me started about the gems & minerals exhibit. this crystal looks like a galaxy!! 😭

This marriage between physical and metaphysical is mirrored so beautifully by the heart. A descent into a Google rabbit hole led me to learn that: 

The heart is the most powerful source of electromagnetic energy in the human body, producing the largest rhythmic electromagnetic field of any of the body’s organs. The heart’s electrical field is about 60 times greater in amplitude than the electrical activity generated by the brain. This field, measured in the form of an electrocardiogram (ECG), can be detected anywhere on the surface of the body. Furthermore, the magnetic field produced by the heart is more than 100 times greater in strength than the field generated by the brain and can be detected up to 3 feet away from the body, in all directions.

There’s the heart as a physical organ with an energetic field, intermingling currents pushing and pulling in a measurable way. And then there’s the metaphysical heart, the chakra of love and compassion. I’m just as mesmerized by what radiates from that heart, a force undetectable by machines - a force that dwells in the shapes and spaces of art and connection. 

In the beloved first installment of Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy, Before Sunrise, Julie Delpy explains this force perfectly to Ethan Hawke in a dimly lit Viennese alley:

You know, I believe if there’s any kind of God, it wouldn’t be in any of us. Not you or me. But just, this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know it’s almost impossible to succeed but, who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt. 

Mmmm. The little space in between. The attempt of understanding someone. Linklater stress tests this idea throughout the trilogy, each installment of the story filmed after nine-year intervals, depicting the aging effect on love. This line delivered by Julie Delpy is the same sentiment expressed by Neil deGrasse Tyson, no? The journey of love mirrors the desire to understand the cosmos — the yearn, coupled with the pursuit, to know the unknowable.

golden hour shadows in my February home

I had a conversation the other day with a friend about vulnerability. He wanted to dig into what it means, how it shows up practically, the conundrum of wanting to be both private and open. I’ve been ruminating on that conversation. Vulnerability often gets thought of in the context of relationships, a necessary ingredient for deep and fulfilling connection. While that is true, I think vulnerability is also something to be practiced in moments of solitude - to sit with oneself and feel the rise and fall of emotion, without deflection or avoidance, and being receptive to ourselves, as we are.

This week, I practiced meditating for thirty minutes, the longest I’ve ever had a go at sitting still. The first ten or so minutes were my usual experience: darting thoughts, noticing the darting thoughts, directing focus to the breath, darting thoughts again, return to breath.

In the second set of ten minutes, I either got bored of my thoughts or they tuckered themselves out, and in that state, I found a glimmer of stillness. From there, an uncomfortable force emerged, causing my chest to tighten before traveling upwards, a sharp ache in my temples. I felt the fieriness of anger, an emotion I rarely access. The heat morphed into a sting in my sinuses, and then - tears. Not a sob, but just gentle, cooling tears. I reached up to wipe my face, pausing before my hand made contact with my cheek. I was reminded of something my friend Lauren once told me - don’t wipe your tears when you cry, it signals to your body that sadness isn’t welcome. So I let the tears flow – a tender stream from lashes to jaw. The experience of being present with myself eclipsed an urge to rationalize, pathologize, or understand the root of my tears. With time and breath, the tension in my chest dissipated, the tears ceased, and a warm emptiness emerged. 

I’ve been sitting with that experience, the duality and interdependence of anger and sadness rising and falling like a sun and moon within me. Anytime I have an urge to investigate what was going on there, I return to the feeling of just allowing. There is a time for self inquiry, and a time for self acceptance. I’d like to honor that moment where my thinking mind calmed, making way for my body’s inherent wisdom to do what it needed to do - release.

There is a growing body of science that explains the benefits of meditation. While it interests me, I prefer entering this ancient practice without leaning on a rational explanation for it. It gives me the chance to practice surrendering — to the unseen, innate powers of healing. And to myself as a microcosm - a being both known and unknown - and to think to myself:

this is where poetry comes from.