Why We Look Up: Celestial Resolutions

Happy New Year! It’s that time again when many of us resolve to improve physical health, start a vegetable garden, or finally for the love of all that is holy clean out the closet under the stairs.

Don’t worry: I’m not doing a deep dive into S.M.A.R.T. goals or how to build better habits. But, here at the start of 2025, I will tell you that my resolution is to give away my stress and apprehension to the night sky.

We live in interesting times, when it’s easy to give into despair and get caught up in divisions and unconstructive rhetoric. It’s nigh on impossible to escape the ongoing and often escalating political turmoil, especially in the United States. If you’ve been feeling more anxious, unmoored, or aggravated than usual, you’re far from alone.

But we still have some agency. I’m using mine to get outside under the stars as much as possible. I look up into the night sky and am filled with possibility. Stargazing takes us out of our everyday mindsets and invites us to embrace something infinitely larger and eternal. Under the stars, I have found the courage to face my most difficult days. I am reassured that all of this will pass, in the wink of a cosmic eye.

“We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it’s forever.”
— Carl Sagan, Cosmos (1980)

The stars are my worry dolls. Into their safekeeping, I whisper my anxieties and confess my darkest fears — the things I don’t divulge to human ears. In this starlit meditation, I also find guidance and hope.

My method might sound a little out there, but it’s also practical and tested. For countless generations, Polaris has been not only a navigational aid but also a symbol of steadfastness and a beacon of optimism.  The North Star offers direction to those who wander, and it endures as a symbol of purpose when we notice our spirits flagging — a lodestar to help us find our way, literally and metaphorically.

Any star, planet, or constellation can be an anchor when I feel adrift. Venus. The Winter Hexagon. The Hercules Cluster. Coma Berenices. Antares and Scorpius. Delphinus. The Moon. There is solace in the familiar. The constellation Orion has always been foundational, rooting my feet beneath me while my head is in the stars. The knot in my chest loosens as I follow the line of Orion’s belt pointing through the Hyades to the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades. The hunter’s shoulder guides me to the twins, Castor and Pollux, and I trace toward the horizon in search of the Beehive Cluster. Sirius, the stellar disco ball, always elicits a smile. On a good night, low-powered binoculars reveal four Galilean moons alongside Jupiter. Among these cosmic friends, a sense of calm and ease descends.

I’m reinforcing the habits I hope will sustain me. Astronomy apps have replaced social media icons on my phone’s home screen. Aurora forecast check-ins will continue daily. I’m making a bedtime routine of checking observing conditions for the wee hours of the morning, and, if the forecast looks promising, setting alarms for 4 or 5 a.m. to step outside. In those hours, I am comforted by Mars setting in the west and by Leo soaring overhead, even if the Lion’s question-mark head is lost in the haze.

Looking ahead, I have March’s total lunar eclipse on my calendar, along with May’s meeting of Mars, the Moon, and the Beehive cluster. There will be an actual plan for galaxy season this year, I promise. I will bid a bittersweet goodbye to the Juno spacecraft as its Jovian mission comes to an end. I will marvel at Saturn “without” its rings, and I might catch Neptune at opposition in September (or Uranus in November). It feels good to focus forward. Celestial expectations, for me, are the heralds of delight.

It won’t all be sunny days and clear nights, alas. I will need to lean into my willfulness. I might stand in the rain, breathe in the mineral petrichor, and imagine the unseen stars above. Or I can tune into online telescope feeds or jump onto FaceTime with my Dad while he uses his Dwarf II telescope.

This overcast winter can feel especially gloomy with an uncertain year stretching out before us. News of the world and personal circumstances will inevitably leave me feeling low and out of sorts. In those moments, I hope to remind myself to stop doomscrolling and instead step into the darkness on the promise of tiny points of light.

Perseverance is my keyword for the year, and I am determined to carry this deliberate tenacity into my nocturnal activities — not just for the sake of my sanity, but with the motive of joy, too.