Enroll in the School of Stars

As the local stores are already promoting “back to school” supplies, I find myself nostalgic and excited at the approach of late summer. I was the quirky kid who loved school and couldn’t wait to dive into new classes. And I’ve been feeling a yearning to to fill in the large gaps in my astronomical knowledge.

I fear my grasp of astronomy is light-years wide but only a Planck length deep. Opportunities for organized learning haven’t been plentiful or obvious — not to mention, I’ve had to expend my time and energy being a responsible adult in the world. So if I want to understand the universe and my place in it, it’s up to me to make it happen. It’s time to design my own School of Stars.

When I was 14, I attended a summer Governor’s School in my home state of Virginia. Choosing the planetarium class over the aquarium curriculum was easy. We visited museums, watched videos, learned how to use a planisphere, and took a camping trip to West Virginia to visit the Green Bank Observatory and its radio telescopes. It was a cool and nerdy way to spend the summer.

But I felt like a cosmic dilettante. During an end-of-session planetarium presentation to our parents, I was put on the spot to point out a constellation I’d never heard of. I panicked. I picked a spot in the projected sky and circled an arbitrary configuration of stars. My classmates told me afterwards they’d been just as clueless when it was their turn. We’d learned how to operate a small planetarium but still didn’t know the sky. And we didn’t get extra credit for inventing new constellations, either.

The summer class ended, and my window on the universe abruptly closed. I didn’t know how to open it again. I got distracted, and decades passed before I took my astronomy education further.

I was one of 16 writers in the 2011 class of the Launch Pad Astronomy Workshop at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. Led by astronomy professor and science fiction writer Mike Brotherton — and with guest faculty including Stanley Schmidt and Jerry Oltion — Launch Pad was like trying to absorb a full semester of Astrophysics 101 in a single, scorching week in July. Thirteen years later, I’m not sure my brain has recovered. I was ridiculously excited about this program — I literally sprinted to the bathroom and back so as not to miss the lectures. I discovered a new fascination with spectroscopy, but I’ve done little to deepen my learning since. Life got in the way. Another astronomical start and stop.

The pandemic changed that. When everything came to a sudden halt, I found the time and incentive to look up again. I bought good binoculars and my first real telescope, along with a lot of astronomy books I haven’t read yet. I’m still a middle-age newbie feeling my way into the stars. Adulting and “all the things” continue to steal focus, but I’m more stubborn about giving ground now.

This past winter, I took an online course with the Kalamazoo Astronomical Society. I sat at my desk every other Saturday to learn more about seasonal constellations, our solar system, observation equipment, and astrophotography. Upon completion, I was bestowed the “rank” of Amateur Astronomer. I framed that certificate and display it as proudly as my fancy university diploma.

The beauty of amateur astronomy is that we are lifelong learners. I’ve long had the idea of planning a self-paced, beginner’s astronomy curriculum, and with “back to school” in the air, I’m feeling motivated to begin again.

Here’s what that might look like: I might string together a YouTube playlist featuring NASA, Alexander Spahn, the McDonald Observatory, the Silicon Valley Astronomy series, and other channels like AstroJeff and Learn the Sky. I can work my way through an astronomy textbook and the many books on my shelves, or read basically anything by Brian Greene. I can also sharpen my star-hopping skills and attend or even volunteer at star parties. With no exams or final papers due, my learning will be measured at night under a wide-open sky.