Elegy
In April of 1006 A.D. a young Egyptian astronomer named Ali ibn Ridwan looked up into the night sky and saw what looked like a new planet shining brightly over the desert. It was so bright, and so large—three times the size of a regular star—that it cast more light than a one-quarter moon. Modern scientists would later estimate that it had shone sixteen times brighter than the planet Venus. It sat low on the southern horizon, bright enough to make shadows from pure starlight in the palm fronds. It was bright enough to be seen in the daytime, and to lighten the blue of the heavens after dark. Ali was a young man then, no more than 18 or 20 when he saw the supernova, because that is what it was—the observed death of a faraway star. It had shown in the constellation of Centaurus, or maybe of Lupus—right there on the border—and was 7,200 light years from earth. It had gone out millennia ago, if simultaneity can be said to mean anything over distances that vast, but it had taken this long—7,200 years—for the news to reach the Nile. Monks in Switzerland saw it too, at the Abbey of Saint Gil, as did the Chinese astrologer Zhou Keming, as did the Persian philosopher Avicenna in northeastern Iran. He said that the dying star changed color over time, that it lingered in the sky for months as it grew dimmer, scintillating and throwing out sparks. Later named SN 1006, it was the brightest supernova observed during the pre-telescopic period. Later, astronomers in 1965 used the Parkes radio telescope to make an image of its remnant. The false color x-ray looks like a red and purple stone, like a tide pool creature, like a dying ember.
Farewell, star that was SN 1006. We remember you.
This entry is from a longer work in progress.
SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: I am teaching a year-long writing workshop, with five sessions of about 45 days each, called A Year of Writing Dangerously. The sessions will be held from February 1st—March 15th, April 1st—May 15th, June 1st—July 15th, September 1st—October 15th, and November 1st—December 15th. The focus will be on intentional journaling and generative freewriting. Those who wish to do so will have the option to produce the first draft of a memoir or essay collection by the end of the year. The cost is €275, or $300, for the entire year. Space is limited, so sign up now if you want to participate.
Enjoy my writing and want to support it? Become a paid subscriber today. You’ll get full access to craft talks, essays, notebook entries, sketchbook pages, and the popular semiannual write-along workshop Essay Camp. You can also buy my books The Oyster War and High Heel, “like” my posts by tapping the heart icon, share them on Substack Notes or other social media, and/or send them to a friend.
I can't explain why, but stuff about the universe, the unfathomable (well, partly fathomable by scientists, but still) dimensions of distance and time ... always give me comfort. Things like "we saw something 1000 years ago, which had actually happened millenia before, "in a galaxy far, far away", make me feel less anxious, less stressed. They relativize my silly little worries and cares. I find that oddly liberating, being reminded how tiny and evanescent I am, we are, everything that seems to matter to us now is. I always tend to think it should frighten or demoralize me, that kind of thought, but it does the opposite. Even just looking up and thinking, the sky isn't actually blue, and there is sooo much more beyond what I can see - but I sure am glad I often get to see the sky as a pretty, summery blue, or I get to see the Aurora when I go to Iceland (seen it twice so far, if that's not an awe-inspiring yet comforting sight, I don't know what is. The gods are putting on a show for us, silly little humans ... the Aurora pokes my atheism with its insinuation of the divine at play, but that's yet another tangent). Also, I just realized this is my safe place for formulating silly little grandiose thoughts like this - which is due to your writing. I've commented several times how much I admire your way with words, the flow of your essays and entries, but really what they so often do is make me ponder, make me remember things I've felt but never voiced, make me look deep inside myself and get a little philosophical. They knock on some doors that are often kept closed because I feel people would think me silly and grandiose. Thank you
The sumptuous beauty of your writing makes me weep sometimes. As in always. And in this case it touches the heart of awe and wonder. What a great thing to read first thing in the morning!