Stargazing at Lindeman Pond

(I would like to start by promising that this is not inappropriate! Also, it's not about the pond itself but about that area on campus...)

“Hey, I finally finished that paper!”

I send the text, my thoughts focused only on getting into my pajamas and going to sleep. I think I deserve it after reading all that poetry. I hear the Allons-y! of my ringtone, expecting nothing more than a good-night.

“Yay J Hey, do you want to go stargazing? It’s the perfect night for it.”

I hesitate. My bed beckons, but so does he.

He’s been wanting to take me stargazing for ages. He says you can see an arm of the Milky Way if you go to the right place. I didn't even know that was possible.

Just this week he asked if we could go, before he remembered that it was a full moon and would therefore not make for good stargazing.

So I reply, “Sure.”

He comes to pick me up.

“There are three places we can go,” he says, “and quality of the stargazing and the time it takes to get there are directly proportional.”

“I don’t want to go down by Storre.”

His face falls.

“You won’t like the best option, then.”

“What’s that?”

“Lindeman pond.”

I protest at first. It’s too far away, it’s too late, it’s too cold. But he convinces me it will be worth it.

So, grumbling, I grab a blanket and a coat and we start the long trek across campus.

By the time we get to the Regent’s lot, it’s cold. We begin walking into the field, past the pond. The light slowly fades behind us as we walk further into the misty dark. I start to get scared; this looks like a scene out of a horror movie. We make our way blindly across the field, through the ropes course, almost hitting the cables holding it up more times than we can count. Neither of us think to use our phones; that would make entirely too much sense.

I’m tired and I’m cold and the dew has soaked the hem of my pants and I’m wondering if it’s worth it when we lay out the blanket, lie down on the ground, and stare up at the sky.

And it definitely is.

I see more stars than I ever remember seeing, even when I lived in New Mexico and spent so much time in the mountains. I can see an arm of the Milky Way, just like he said. I see shooting stars. It makes me feel so small and insignificant.

I want to take a picture, but my phone only captures the darkness, not the millions of specks of light the stars provide. I suppose it’s fitting; technology really doesn’t belong here. We try to find constellations but fail miserably. That’s fitting, too; we’re not supposed to impose order on this.

I want to say something, but I don’t know what. It’s hard to put words to the entire cosmos, the whole universe stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction. All I can say is, “Thank you,” and hold him closer.

And as I look, I forget the cold, hard ground. I forget how tired I am. I even start to forget the one beside me who brought me here. Laying by the pond, staring at the stars, all I notice is nature.

And it’s so incredibly beautiful.