Eyes on Jupiter
The largest planet in our solar system is still only ever fleetingly visible, though the present night is completely still and the silent sky is swathed in darkest black. This far from the city, all the heavenly bodies you are told exist somewhere far above will peek slyly down at you, twinkling, or not, carpeting an ebony dome with faintest pinpricks of radiance.
Inhale, and you are somehow thrust up further into this canopy of brilliance; exhale, and you are snatched rudely back down to earth. Can you feel the stars? How do you acknowledge this expanse of space? What about the time and years and light lent and lost between?
I sense a slight movement out of focus with my sightline, though when I try to picture this disturbance, its direct image escapes me. I shift my gaze a hair’s breadth lower, and in a brash seven seconds of glory, I catch my shooting star.
It’s 11:11.
When was the last time you were quiet? Really? Silence can be oppressive, but allows for the space to listen in order to be able to hear.
When was the last time you were perfectly still? Really? Stillness is never, by nature, idle — instead, it facilitates intent, purpose, and leaves room for future movement.
This time last hour it was 22:22.
Time is irrelevant. Time is irreverent. But what a gorgeous concept.

