Curtainless and Connected

Did I mention the first night I sleep in our new home? Lying in the clutches of woman-flu I gaze from the nadir of the airbed and stare out through the curtain-less window at three snowy balls of Orion’s Belt in the night sky.

“I can see Orion,” I cry in excitement.

The Other One continues to snore.

There’s something about this sight, even in my near-death paralysis, that sweeps over me in a wave of relaxation. I feel that I am, after all, connected to the universe. Because I had begun to wonder. The light pollution at the last house was such that I was lucky if I saw a star at all. Although as the house was situated opposite a hospital, we were graced with abundant blue-flashing and fast-moving stars spreading across the firmament, with accompanying sirens. But sky? Not much of that, I’m afraid. Houses? Yes. Some lovely, tall trees? Yes. And sprawl of star-blocking suburbia.

So, here I am, suddenly back in the cradle of the North York Moors, faced with skies that expand across the horizon like Granny’s knitting: intense blue, moody patina, stormy flusters of cloud stretching purple and pink, with the sea reflecting every strange quirk of light like a twin. Makes me want to weep like a baby, it’s so beautiful.

And beyond, the sea bucks and bridles beneath the cliffs, while the stars of Orion’s Belt spangle small silver suns deep within the dark night.

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